The Day Before

by Micol Ostow

  “There must be something wrong,” I snapped, grabbing the card back from her. I gave her my Vista instead, and then MasterClass.

  Beep. Beep. Smirk. Smirk. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lodge.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I hissed, gathering my cards back and stuffing everything into my Louis Vuitton bucket bag.

  “When I come back—if I come back—you will be gravely sorry for how you’ve mistreated me.”

  “Have a nice day,” she said impassively.

  So it was most unexpected that I found myself slinking home just in time to make a slight-but-dramatically-late entrance to our own party, the one I was meant to have been helping set up. I’d texted Mom, of course, to let her know I was held up, but she hadn’t replied. To me, that said she was beyond furious. My phone ran out of juice the second after I texted her, too, so I couldn’t take an Uber or Lyft, and I didn’t want to run the risk of my credit cards being declined in a yellow cab. I’d had to walk home—and I hadn’t had a chance to check out the Post, either.

  Nigel at the courtyard gate gave me a terse nod—polite, but only minimally so. Feeling completely out of sorts, I marched as proudly as I could to our building. Andre in the lobby had been replaced by Christopher, it having been literally the duration of his shift that I’d been detained at Barneys.

  “Hello,” I said to him, trying to sound brighter than I was feeling. “Fashionably late to my own party—egregious, I know. Do you think I can get away with claiming I like to make an entrance?”

  “Of course, Ms. Lodge,” Christopher said, keeping his eyes fixed at some indeterminate point on his desk.

  “It was a joke,” I said, that prickly feeling creeping up along my skin again.

  “Of course, Ms. Lodge,” he said, utterly toneless. “Ha.”

  It was the most chilling attempted laugh I’d heard outside of a Stanley Kubrick movie.

  To the left, I saw Nicola Mavis, who lived one floor below us, collecting her mail. She was in palazzo pants—silk, but still casual, and bare feet, which seemed odd given that she normally attended our parties.

  “Will we be seeing you in a bit?” I asked her. Apparently I startled her, because she jumped.

  She turned to me. “Oh,” she said. “Veronica. I … haven’t been up there yet.”

  “It’s okay,” I smiled. “Me neither. We can be each other’s alibis.”

  I was joking—obviously—but her response was strained.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be up there soon.”

  But she didn’t sound very convincing.

  I took the elevator up to our penthouse, extremely worried about what on earth would be waiting for me when I got there.

  The first thing I noticed when the paneled elevator doors slid open was an eerie silence. We’d hired a jazz trio and yes, in theory they were meant to be subdued, conversation-enhancing, low-decibel, and chill, but this wasn’t chill. This was nothing.

  In fact, the feel of the entire foyer as I crept forward, my heart quickening in my throat, was one of suspended animation. The air was heavy, tense, not at all lighthearted like you’d expect of a big holiday bash. The guests were here, gathered—there was one of the Vanderbilt heiresses in a corseted Gabbana that she could barely pull off, the poor dear—but they were silent, like they were collectively holding their breaths.

  My goal was to sneak through the kitchen and down the back hallway to the servant’s quarters, where I could creep to my bedroom undetected for a quick change. But that wasn’t how it ended up playing out.

  “M’hija!” It was my father, his voice booming, betraying none of the bizarre tone of the space. “Come here, please.” He was calling to me from his office.

  “Of course, Daddykins.” I stepped lightly, like the room was trip-wired, for reasons I couldn’t quite explain to myself. Yes, the guests were here, assembled, but they were still, shell-shocked, frozen, almost like museum dioramas—here was one clutching a glass of Sancerre with the white-knuckled intensity of an Olympic athlete, here was a mini lobster roll being dangled halfway between plate and open mouth, like the intended guest had forgotten his original plan to actually eat it. There was the jazz trio, assembled, as always, adjacent to the fireplace, the French doors thrown open to the summer air. But their instruments were still.

  The servers, too, were huddled like mannequins, lined up against the far wall of the hallway in their white shirts and black pants like the world’s most overdressed, most passive army.

  Every single gaze in the apartment was trained on me as I made my way to Daddy’s office. There were Cam, Nick, and Annie—their own faces inscrutable, suffused with several competing expressions that I couldn’t, in the moment, unpack.

  “Daddy,” I said, willing my voice to be strong, “it’s so weird out there, did something happen? Did I miss a news flash or something while I was out? Maybe something in the Post? And—oh, I have to tell you about the horrendous abuse I suffered at Barneys. It’s been—”

  I stopped.

  I dropped my bag. It skidded off my open-toed shoes, which should have hurt, or at least made me blanch, but I was so shocked at the sight in front of me that I didn’t so much as blink.

  If the rooms outside were crowded—with murmuring, waxwork party-goers—then this room was electric. It was standing-room-only, crawling with uniformed officials. NYPD, SEC … clusters of initials that made my head swim.

  The office itself had been trashed. Desk drawers pulled completely out, contents emptied, overturned on the ground amidst sheets and sheets of paper. File folders splayed across every available surface. A telltale wire wastebasket with the remains of something that had been shredded. Probably recently.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, despite the voice inside my head telling me exactly what was going on. What I should have known would be coming, eventually. If I’d bothered to pay attention to the signs. To recognize even my own family’s fallibility.

  “Don’t say a word.” It was Roger Glassman, Daddy’s chief attorney. So, he was here. And he was telling Daddy to stay silent—even with me, his own daughter.

  No wonder the folks at Barneys thought my father and his lawyers would be “otherwise occupied.”

  No wonder my credit cards were declined.

  Yes, I’d missed a news flash. Or seven. And a few hundred obvious signs.

  For years, there’d been whispers of Daddy and some possibly shady business dealings. I never listened, of course. Weren’t all successful businessmen accused of being cheats and frauds at one point or another? It was the cost of success: a target on your back. “Most kings get their heads cut off.” And here, at last, was Daddy’s moment at the guillotine. And all his friends and colleagues here, gruesomely, to see him off. Delighting in his downfall. Grateful they’d dodged the bullet themselves this time.

  “Ms. Veronica Lodge?” one of the officers approached me.

  I glanced at Glassman, who gave me a nod. “Yes.”

  “Your father’s facing some very serious charges. We have a warrant to search the premises, and we expect we’ll be taking him under arrest when we’re through.” His eyes were kinder than I might have expected, like he was sorry to have to be dragging me into this. “You might want to wait in the hallway, or another room, while we finish up.”

  “Listen to him, M’hija,” Mom said. Her worry lines had deepened into fault lines across her forehead.

  “Mom—”

  “Listen to him,” she repeated, softer, but still firmly this time.

  I wanted to be brave, strong, and proud—to be the kind of person who could face the crowd waiting, hovering like vultures, in the living room. But I guess I’m not that person at heart—not when push truly comes to shove. Because when I left the room, I fled immediately to what I imagined to be the safety and privacy of my own bedroom.

  Except, the room wasn’t private. In fact, it wasn’t empty at all. My friends had gathered there: Annie, Cam, Nick … My eyes welled up and my heart soared with gr
atitude. Thank god for friends, or this moment would be completely intolerable.

  “You guys,” I said, breathless, “it’s insane in there. They’re searching all of Daddy’s files, looking for … I don’t even know what! They say”—I paused to keep a tear from escaping—“they’re going to arrest him.”

  I flopped down on the four-poster bed. Really, I wanted to curl into a ball, to have my mother pull the covers over me and rub my back, to reassure me that this would all be okay, despite every indication that that was not how it was going to be at all. “Thank you,” I said soulfully, “for being here. For not leaving. For sticking by me.” I swallowed. “You really are true friends.”

  There was a long pause. As close as we were, these people weren’t used to such earnest displays from Veronica Lodge, I knew. Maybe I’d been too raw, too real?

  But then, it started: first, a low chuckle, coming from Nick St. Clair himself, who’d only just this morning professed undying love for me. Then Annie chimed in, a shrieking laugh that sounded like a hyena, or some other wild animal. Last but not least was Cam, the one girl I’d thought I was closest to—surely my best friend, after Katie—who doubled over, laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.

  I sat up very straight on the bed. “What’s going on?” Even though, truth be told, I knew. I more than knew.

  “You thought we came because we’re your friends, Ronnie?” Cam asked, sending herself into another spasm of hysteria. “Please.”

  “You knew this was coming.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Girl, everyone knew this was coming. Our parents have been talking about it for weeks. I guess yours tried to keep it from you. And succeeded.” Cam sounded so goddamn pleased with herself.

  “The only reason we came tonight was because we wanted front row seats to the carnage,” Nick said.

  Was my head spinning, or the room? Sure, Daddy played hardball, and yes, he had his enemies, but this? The people I thought were my friends were here literally to laugh at my pain? “What about … what was all that stuff from this morning, Nick?” I asked, my stomach turning just remembering it.

  “Oh, yeah!” His eyes brightened. “That was just a little something extra we cooked up, to make this moment really”—he made a “chef’s kiss” motion—“stick.”

  “You’re sick,” I told him. “No wonder I always found you so utterly resistible.”

  “Oh, shut it, Ronnie,” Annie said. “You weren’t into Nick because you were too busy hooking up with any guy any of us ever mentioned we might be into. Because you’re such a good friend.”

  I stared at her, my breath coming fast. “Like it’s my fault that no guy would take Payless if they could have Prada instead? Take a long, hard look in the mirror—”

  “Take a long, hard look into your soul, Ronniekins,” Cam snapped. “Oh, no, wait—you haven’t got one! Like father, like daughter.”

  Annie got in my face, so close I could smell the orange Tic Tacs she must’ve been sucking on while she waited for me to come home. “Since the freaking first grade, you’ve been terrorizing our school. You think you’re untouchable, that we fall in line because we worship you so much. Meanwhile, everyone hates you, Ronnie. You deserve everything coming to you. Your dad is the worst con artist sleazebag since Bernie Madoff, and he’s going down. And there’s no effing way you or your mother are going to come out unscathed.”

  Cam moved in next to her. “Karma’s a bitch, Veronica,” she sang low. “But not as bad as you.”

  The three of them walked out together, holding hands like kids on a playground, still laughing.

  As promised, they took Daddy away that night. By then, the guests had finally been ushered out—though we had to call a reluctant Christopher to take care of clearing the space. He looked sorry for us, for what Mom and I were being dragged through.

  But not that sorry.

  Once the apartment was empty, Mom finally took off her heels. Still in her party couture, she collapsed onto the parlor settee with a generous glass of wine in hand. She shook some small white pills from a tiny box she pulled from a pocket and gulped them down with the alcohol. Even I knew that wasn’t a great sign.

  Finally, I had my moment to curl up in her lap. She stroked my hair, and didn’t once complain that I was definitely staining her white dress with my cheek highlighter. To say that was the least of our problems was … the height of understatement.

  “When will he be back?” I asked, my voice wobbly.

  “I don’t know, M’hija,” Mom admitted. “The people who’ve got him have wanted him for a long time.”

  “But … he’s innocent, right? He has to be. What Cam was saying … it can’t be true.”

  She was silent. I could feel her chest rise and fall with her breath. She smelled like freesia and tuberose, her favorite perfume. I’d never be able to associate that scent with feeling safe again, would I?

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “the assets are seized, at least temporarily. Which means our budget is … severely compromised.”

  “We’re broke.”

  “Not quite. Not by most people’s standards. But we’re going to have to make some … lifestyle changes.”

  I sat up, worried. “Such as?”

  “Well, for starters, this apartment. The overhead is unbelievable. They’re strict about subletting here, but I can probably get a special dispensation. Believe it or not, I still have a friend or two on the board.”

  “Sublet? Then, where will we go? Out to the Hamptons? To the lake house?” It wasn’t ideal, but it also wasn’t the very worst way to spend the summer, after all.

  But Mom shook her head at that. “I wish we could, M’hija. But those are assets. And we won’t have access to them until your father is free.”

  “Proven innocent.”

  “Free,” she insisted, refusing to give any ground. “One way or another.”

  “So, where are we going to go?” We had family, of course, lots of extended family, but I doubted Mom wanted to go slinking back to them in our darkest hour. It was a matter of pride.

  “Well,” Mom said, putting down her wineglass. “Actually, I’ve already made arrangements. I thought it was important to be prepared.”

  “You knew! You knew this was coming and you hid it from me.”

  “I was trying to protect you,” she said. “I was worried, but I was holding out hope that everything would be fine. That it wouldn’t come to this.”

  “I guess I can understand why you’d do that,” I said, interlacing my fingers through hers. “So, these arrangements?”

  “Do you remember the town I grew up in?”

  “Uh, only bits and pieces. That tiny little two-bit Norman Rockwell/Brigadoon mashup of … wait … maple syrup, milk shakes, and doo-wop music, right?”

  She laughed. “Sort of. There’s more to it than that.”

  “Um, no offense, but it doesn’t sound like there’s that much more.”

  “It’s not so bad,” she assured me. “You’ll see.”

  “Upstate, right? River Vale?”

  “Yes, off the Metro North. Riverdale.”

  “Right, okay,” I groaned, trying to be good-natured. It was hard. “I guess I’ll be sure to pack my poodle skirts and bobby socks.”

  Mom squeezed me tight. “Pack them quickly, M’hija,” she said. “We leave tomorrow.”

  Hey, readers—who here remembers Veronica Lodge, the heiress apparent to Wolf of Wall Street Hiram Lodge of Lodge Industries? Not ringing any bells? The ins and outs of the world of finance not exactly your typical preferred flavor of gossip?

  We promise: You know Ronnie. You’ve seen her air-kissing Rihanna in photos from last year’s Met Gala. And she’s collaborating with the Olsen twins on a series of vegan leather handbags, too, we hear.

  For the NYC social elite, an invite to the Lodge’s Fourth of July bash is the hot ticket. We were all set to give you the complete 411.
But this year, things got a touch … shall we say, overheated?

  Poor little rich girl came home to her own fete only to find the Feds carting Daddy away. If you’re feeling up for a dose of schadenfreude, you can read the full arrest report here. Lodge Industries has yet to release a statement at this time.

  All we can say is this: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And this is one diva whose life’s gone up in flames.

  –Cleo T. for Hello Giggles

  ARCHIE

  For a self-proclaimed uncomplicated guy, I had a lot of thoughts churning around in my head while I packed a backpack to meet up with Geraldine: dishonesties between Dad and me, distance between Jug and me, the fact that now that I’d discovered music, I was pulling away from the Bulldogs and everything that used to define me in the first place.

  The fact that I was involved with my music teacher and couldn’t tell a soul about it.

  “Pack light,” she’d instructed, when we first talked about the overnight campout. “We won’t need much.” And I was sure she was right, but I was so keyed up I barely even noticed what I was throwing into the bag: a T-shirt, some clean socks. A flashlight, a water bottle. I wasn’t Dilton Doiley, I didn’t need some kind of survivalist kit.

  Honestly, I was missing Betty.

  I wouldn’t have been able to tell her about Geraldine—I knew she wouldn’t approve; Betty was such a good girl she’d never be on board with anyone breaking the rules that way. But I wanted to tell her. Or, I don’t know, just to talk to her about anything. About nothing at all. Shoot the breeze like we used to all the time, before she left for LA.

  Instinctively, I looked toward her bedroom window. The light was on, which threw me off. A blond head was looking through the dresser, opening and closing the drawers and shaking her head. For a second I thought I was seeing things. But then I realized: wrong blond. It was Polly, not Betty, rooting around.

  I rapped on my window, our old symbol for getting each other’s attention, long before either of us had phones. Polly looked up, even though it had been mine and Betty’s thing, of course. She slid the window open and gestured for me to do the same.