—Oh hi, Parker. Lovely to see you, glad you’re here. This is Eric Hashimoto. We have to head out for a bit. Rather urgent medical issue; private. Do you want anything from the Underworld on our way back?
She passed him, Eric in tow, with a smile and introductory wave, but briskly and without waiting for a response, leaving Remington frozen, mouth ajar, looking quizzically at their backs. It was a virtuoso performance, Dale thought, precisely because it wasn’t a performance at all. She had spun fiction out of facts, a deception without deceit. And she knew Parker well, clearly—a lover of creative solutions, but also a steadfast follower of rules. He would never, ever take the chance of creating even the hint of an appearance of an iota of a smidgeon of a HIPAA violation. Remington turned his eyes to Dale.
—Parker, Dale said, how was your weekend?
CHAPTER VIII.
In retrospect Vivien would develop a clear explanation for herself as to why it happened, how many (many) years of resisting what she wanted to do in favor of what she wanted to have done had, far from building up a tolerance, reached some kind of maximum capacity in her, some outer-bound limit to human restraint. It wasn’t a departure from her character, she came to believe, but rather an inevitability precisely because of her character: her oversaturation in the present perfect tense had left her perversely, cruelly vulnerable in the face of a perfect present. And Julian hadn’t helped.
Sill Mill gossip notwithstanding, Vivien had never really pictured Wesley Range as a tech CEO. Her impression of him was built on the kind of emotional truth impervious to fact, and she could only conceive of his adulthood as the creative class ideal: an endless extension of ultra-privileged adolescence, of ambiguous job but definitive lifestyle. He’d be perpetually at the epicenter of the universe, conspicuously at leisure whatever the season. Summers in Nantucket that rounded into a Telluride September. Autumnal New En gland culminating in a traditional Connecticut Christmas before skiing in Adelboden or Chamonix. A “real” vacation in January or February—St. Barths or Nevis, something remote and lush and invariably involving a yacht. There’d be at least one extended, more exotic self-discovery sort of sojourn each year: Rajasthan, Machu Picchu, Marrakech . . . By Vivien’s intuitive calendrical expectations, Wes should have been in Cannes this week.
And yet he was here, in New York, at her exhibition—and supremely complimentary of it. He lived in the Flatiron District. It was a loft, he told her, right on Broadway. It sounded exactly like the kind of place she pictured him owning, the kind of place she’d like to live in herself. When he made it a point to say that his wife was out of town, Vivien’s chest contracted with the implication she read in it. There was a jarring, teenage quality to her embarrassment then; it was laced with the same strain of underlying danger and excitement she might have felt fifteen years earlier if he’d said the same thing of his parents.
Dinner was scheduled for eight. After Wes and Julian left and her heartbeat slowed, as raw shock and delight gave way to postmortem social replay and analysis, Vivien couldn’t help but resent Julian for the surprise, for failing to make the connection, for failing to prepare her adequately. Had she struck the right balance between pleasure and indifference to Wes’s encomia? Seemed too eager for him to join them that evening? She tried to beat back her annoyance with qualifiers—that she had forgone an early night to prepare extra-thoroughly in the hope of impressing Julian; that the tour had objectively gone well; that Wes was married; that she was engaged; that, while yes, she would have probably opted for a different outfit had she known (something a bit less starchly professional, a touch more “downtown”), she should always be sartorially prepared for this kind of thing. Preparation was, after all, an attribute that Vivien deeply prided herself on; it was an attribute that made Vivien Vivien. How embarrassing, to be caught off guard in the Internet Age.
Vivien threw the rest of her day into ensuring she would not be caught off guard again. When Raffaela, the Renaissance curatorial department’s teeny Italian secretary, so old-fashioned she herself seemed Baroque, complained to her that the private school girls on her morning commute were wearing obscenely short skirts without nylons, Vivien fought the urge to engage, avoiding a lengthy debate on twenty-first-century norms and allowing her to finish most of the day’s administrative work before noon. In lieu of lunch, Vivien signed up for a last-minute barre class. She called Dale on her way to the studio, loosely conscious, on some level, of ringing him now so as not to be obliged to later. While she told him the truth—that she was going to dinner with Julian and one of his business school friends—Vivien could not entirely shield herself from the sense that somehow, the truth here had a lie-like quality. She’d never spoken to Dale in that specific tone before; it was the tone she used on authority figures with whom she intended only to superficially comply. This alone seemed to forge a little cleft between them, and she was relieved when they hung up and the isometric pelvic thrusts commenced.
Vivien grabbed a chopped salad on her way back to the Met that she ate at her desk in the company of Ecco’s website. This led her to flattering articles about Wes and photographs of his wife, which she indulged in for a time until she couldn’t stand it anymore and sought digital reassurance in Pinterest. The images, so rhythmically haphazard as to be obviously staged, had that comforting blend of surprise and predictability perfected by Law & Order, Vivien’s all-time favorite show. The perfectly torn jeans and Delpozo gowns and delicate lace details and suntanned shoulders and Grace Kelly portraits and Euclidean beach umbrellas—they offered an escape that felt like self-improvement without any of the work actually required to move toward it, the Ideal Vivien. It was pleasurable research that she could even, to some extent, bill to herself as work-related—curatorial. Sometimes it seemed the pictures might go so far as to diffuse through her ocular mucous membranes, instantly transforming her very being into a better one, a more enviable one, just by looking; as if she were at least partially absorbing their glamour and cool. Sometimes, if she looked long enough, it almost felt as if she were the one in the picture, like she could somehow feel her own gaze admiring her transformed self, like she’d bested Narcissus. Oh, Vivien—excellent work, she could almost hear herself say, excellent work.
After her 3:00 p.m. public lecture, Vivien resisted the temptation to linger and bask in the layup questions and flattering compliments of the well-educated yoga moms and retirees in attendance, instead clocking some face time with the head curator so she might duck out early and scout something to wear. She needed to look like she hadn’t given the dinner a moment’s thought, and this would take time.
Vivien found the dress at Vince, across from her hotel at Madison and Seventy-Sixth. It was a simple shift, deliriously soft and just the right length, as in a bit too short but seemingly accidentally so, as if she were a touch taller and thinner than the intended model. It was effortless without being sloppy, editorial but in no way dressed up. With her low-tops and denim jacket, it would hit the right note, showing her off without her showing off. If the dress had come only in black, or only in navy, she would have gladly, almost thoughtlessly, purchased either. But unfortunately it came in both. She spent over half an hour in the dressing room switching between them, examining herself, posing, evaluating the implications, agonizing over the decision. It was amazing how the same dress in only slightly different colors could seem so different. But then again, nothing highlights difference quite like homogeneity. The black was so stark, so purely minimal. Very now, very New York. The navy would have seemed the same in isolation, but by contrast it almost felt like a grown-up version of something she might have worn at Penn or even Sill. Comparatively, it paid homage to prep without being preppy, developing a latent infusion of nostalgia and youth. She wanted to prefer the black. Reason told her to go for the black. In a movie, she’d definitely wear a black dress. But viscerally, physically, she felt lighter, looked younger in the navy. It made her feel how she wanted to feel in the black. Even if she bought b
oth, she could wear only one. Vivien had to choose.
Back in her hotel room, she performed her ablutions slowly, using as little product as possible. She showered and dried her hair upside down, infusing its natural order with a little chaos to make it look more natural. At various points in the evening she might nonchalantly reassess the side of her part. She plucked two or three microscopic strays below her eyebrows, resisting the urge to pick at the tiny pimple on her chin. She moisturized her cuticles. The dress looked as good as she’d thought it would with the denim jacket and sneakers, and she tried to prevent herself from second-guessing the color. She decided to skip a bag, stuffing her hotel key, ID, and a credit card into the pocket of her jacket. No jewelry either, aside from her everyday studs. The only thing she added was sunglasses, classic Ray-Ban Clubmasters. She hooked them onto the neck of her dress, letting them pull the fabric slightly, revealing its heft. Like she’d been out enjoying the city and hadn’t even bothered to stop back at her hotel. Like she’d changed right after work without thinking about it at all.
The restaurant was in the West Village on Bedford, about half an hour by cab. Timing was always iffy with such gatherings—especially in New York. No one wanted to be the first to arrive, waiting awkwardly at the table, worse at the bar, worse still by the host stand. Being on time was always too early. It gave an impression of overeagerness, that one wasn’t adequately pressed for time (busyness being, to a far greater extent in New York than Philadelphia, a prime signifier of social clout). But no one wanted to be visibly last either, to be the one holding up the party from being seated. Anything past fifteenish minutes late was rude and disrespectful of everyone else’s busyness. It signaled either that you were trying too hard or that you had an equally uncool total lack of self-awareness. It was important to minimize the chance of either scenario. Vivien intended to arrive at 8:08.
It was a lovely little restaurant. One of those upscale, neighborhoody gems full of exposed brick and tattooed staff that hit just the right balance between social open-mindedness and economic exclusivity. Thankfully, Julian was already at the bar, sipping an Old-Fashioned garnished with a geometric orange peel and single oversized cube of ice.
He’d changed since the tour that morning, and now sported dark jeans and a quilted Barbour vest over a muted plaid shirt of the genre that looks truly appropriate only when carrying a dead duck you yourself recently terminated. Ferragamo loafers and a lightly scuffed L.L.Bean tote, known by Vivien to be one of his “everyday” tote bags, completed the ensemble.
—Kind of you to join me, you look lovely, Julian said, looking at his watch, only slightly annoyed. Fucking Wes is always fucking late. And he lives the closest to this place. It’s ridiculous. Oh, well, there he is. Finally. At least you two have given me adequate time to peruse the menu. I hate being rushed into an order. Did you see that the special is blanquette de veau? I’m positively giddy.
—Hi, sorry to have kept you both waiting, Wes said with a smile, pressing his cheek to Vivien’s and shaking Julian’s hand as the hostess showed them to an interior table, much to Julian’s irritation.
Wes had obviously showered. His skin still had that just-showered warmth and humidity. He’d likewise changed into jeans (but more fashion-forward, butt-hugging ones) and a plaid shirt that he tucked under the same silver-gray pullover he’d worn on the tour.
They exchanged the various customary pleasantries; Julian complained again about the table. Wes ordered what Julian was drinking and Vivien opted for a Moscow Mule. Julian ordered another round, as well as a Diet Coke and a club soda with lime. It was hardly unusual for Julian to order three or even four different beverages at a time with meals, but Wes and Vivien affectionately ganged up on him about it anyway, the way old friends tend to do with one another’s eccentricities. The server confirmed all the drinks were to everyone’s liking and prepared to take down their food orders.
—The roasted Brussels sprouts to start, please, Vivien said. And what would you recommend between the moules frites and the duck?
—Ooh, impossible. They are both so good—it just totally depends on your mood. Are you super-hungry? The duck is a ton of food. The mussels are definitely on the lighter side.
Vivien was ravenous.
—Let’s go with the mussels, then.
—I’ll have the quail to start, and the filet, please, said Wes.
—And the foie gras and blanquette de veau for me.
—I’m so sorry, the server cringed, dragging the “o.” We literally just ran out of the blanquette de veau.
—You’re out of the blanquette de veau? Are you shitting me?
The server was not, as it turned out, shitting Julian, and he begrudgingly—chiding the server not to rush his order—compromised on the roast chicken.
—Ugh, we should have gone to the Yale Club, Julian said when the server was almost out of earshot. This is what you get for going to dinner below Twenty-Third Street.
It was the kind of interchange both Wes and Vivien understood Julian to relish, an opportunity to comically overreact to a minor grievance for social effect. This episode launched a foray into past quintessential-Julian grievance-overreaction folklore (a rich, nuanced genre) that had Wes and Vivien alternating in sidesplitting laughter over the well-established antics of their mutual friend. Julian was all too delighted to fan the flame, hilariously rearticulating, defending, and even embellishing every far-fetched behavioral rationale. To Vivien, Wes’s deep knowledge and understanding of Julian felt almost like a knowledge and understanding of her. On top of their Sill connection, it was easy to mistake similar memories for shared ones, for their separate personal histories to elicit the impression of a long-standing intimacy that did not exist.
Their appetizers arrived, and they ordered another round. For the entrées, everyone switched to wine.
—Has Julian ever told you about Audrey Wimberly, Wes?
—No, I don’t believe so—a former girlfriend, Julian?
—Not quite, Vivien said, to a roll of Julian’s eyes. She’s a friend of mine—a close friend, actually—from our “Art Since 1945” class sophomore year. One day after class, I happened to mention I had brunch plans with Julian. It was a casual, offhand comment, you know; I thought she liked him. But Audrey was flabbergasted. “Are you sure you want to do that, Vivien?” she said. “Don’t you know that he rubs people the wrong way?” Julian overheard her and went ballistic.
—Well, and why wouldn’t I? First of all, I rub plenty of people the right way—
—Yes, so you said! said Vivien, turning again to Wes. And then he proceeded to offer himself as a reference for himself.
Wes was laughing so hard he was nearly in tears. Though he still managed to thank the server clearing their plates, Vivien noticed.
—I couldn’t fathom why he’d been so deeply offended, she continued, returning to Julian. You know not everyone understands your jokes.
—It wasn’t like Audrey understood “Art Since 1945” either.
—Don’t be an idiot, Julian. Audrey works for Larry Gagosian. Anyway, Wes, it gets better. He ultimately threatened that if she “ever, ever uttered another word critiquing his esteemed personage again,” he would “sell her into slavery for twenty-four dollars in expired Applebee’s gift certificates.”
—In retrospect, perhaps not the best turn of phrase for the situation, Julian admitted, abruptly changing his tone and readjusting his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose.
—Why, Wes wailed, now fully crying, that’s amazing.
—Well, because Vivien forgot to mention that Audrey Wimberly is Black.
—Jesus Christ, Julian, Wes coughed, making a valiant effort to stop laughing. Vivien, this is why I’m going prematurely gray. This is my head of HR.
—Oh please, Julian rejoined imperiously. I am the paragon of minority acceptance. I campaigned very hard, if you’ll recall, for us to have MLK Day off.
—You also campaigned for Columbus Day.<
br />
Julian waved him off, trying to catch the server’s attention, making an ultra-exaggerated version of the universal American “I’d like the check, please” face.
—So soon? Wes said. I was hoping for another round.
—Um, seriously? My bowels are going to be in an uproar tomorrow as it is, said Julian. But don’t let me stop you.
Vivien casually reassessed her part, the mass of her locks tumbling over the alternate shoulder:
—I could have another.
CHAPTER IX.
SELECT INCOMING AND OUTGOING SMS TEXT MESSAGE ACTIVITY (RESORTED, BY CONTACT, CHRONOLOGICAL) OF DIANA W. WHALEN (SPRINT NETWORK, WIRELESS NUMBER 917-XXX-XXXX), MONDAY, MAY 18, 2015.
[CONTACT NAME(S): “McBride, Dale”]
Monday 11:43 AM
Important question for you
Diana?
Correct
On a scale of 1 to 10
How much does Parker remind you of Alec Baldwin?
How are you only just now texting me
I’ve sent you two emails
Didn’t have your cell
Is Horace ok?
What are we dealing with?
7.5/10
No way
No way he’s not ok or no way 7.5/10?
Oh sorry
Yes that was ambiguous
No way 7.5
It’s at least a 9
Did you factor in that they both hawk credit cards?
Jesus Diana
And manage to look distinguished AF in spite of it?
He’s looking more pissed than distinguished right now
Because he can’t ask why you’re gone
Clever, with the “medical” bit BTW
Raj and Megan’s flight was delayed
They are stuck at ORD
So it’s just Parker and Richard (“Rich”) and Me
What is “Rich” like?
Brosef
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