Camilla just smiled. “Hilarious.” Then she leapt up, handing the man her AmEx Platinum. “Can you just wrap these up for me? Thanks so much. Evelyn: we have to talk.”
Evelyn started to backtrack on the debutante story, but before she could, Camilla continued, “You know my mother’s forcing me to be the junior-committee host for the Luminaries, right?”
“Sure,” Evelyn said. It was the key fund-raiser for the New-York Signet Society, a charity that supported artistic and literary events around the city.
“I was thinking, your father would be a great Luminary.”
“My father? He’s not a New Yorker.”
Camilla winked. “Sometimes we can make exceptions. Particularly if the Luminaries are supportive of the group.”
“Milla, he’s not a literary guy.”
“I was thinking he should come in at the Luminary Patrons level. There’s a fabulous dinner that he’d love. He sounds so fun, Evelyn. We never get people from the South and he would spice it up.”
“I’m sure he’d love to, but honestly, I don’t think it’s his kind of thing.”
“Evelyn, you support my things, I support your things,” Camilla said in a low voice, narrowing her eyes. Evelyn half expected a “Capisce?” from her.
“I’ll definitely ask, but—”
“So the Patrons level. He’ll really enjoy it. I’ll put together the information for him. Let him know I’m counting on him for a Patrons donation. It’s twenty-five thousand, so.”
“Twenty-five thousand.” Evelyn licked her lips. “Right, the thing is, though—”
The man returned with a triangular shopping bag, and Camilla took it as she continued, “He will have a great time. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Now, lunch.” She started to walk away, leaving Evelyn a little stunned.
*
Evelyn had pictured the whole New York weekend being just her and Camilla, shopping and ordering drinks and brunching, but when she joined Camilla that evening at Sant Ambroeus, Camilla had ordered Aperol spritzes for seven.
“Who else is coming?” Evelyn said, taking a sip of the fluorescent-orange drink.
“Nick, Brooke Birch, Will Brodzik, Pres, and I think Pres is bringing your friend Carrie,” Camilla said.
“Charlotte?” Evelyn said.
“Isn’t it Carrie?” Camilla asked.
Brooke had gone to St. Paul’s and Trinity with Camilla, Evelyn had discovered when Googling her after an earlier mention. Her plump boyfriend Will had played water polo at Enfield but was squarely middle class; he had been an Enfield day student, practically a townie, Camilla had once explained. Brooke and Will had been uncompetitive sorts who moved to San Francisco after college, electing a life of triathlons and second-tier markets instead of the elbow throwing of New York. Brooke had worked for two years doing fund-raising at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. She had quit not long ago, and talked vaguely about opening a boutique in Pacific Heights, but her mother’s second marriage had been good enough that she would inherit plenty and didn’t have to work. Indeed, the marriage, to a ski-resort developer, was also good for Will, who worked for Brooke’s stepfather’s firm.
Brooke arrived when Camilla was in the bathroom and, when the maître d’ took her over to the table, flat-out glared at Evelyn before sitting.
“I’m Evelyn Beegan. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” Evelyn said, scooting out from her chair to offer her hand. “So you know Camilla from St. Paul’s?”
“We’re very old friends,” said Brooke, who had thin blond hair and pointy ears, emphasizing the “very.” “I thought it was just me, her, Will, and Preston tonight, actually.”
“Nope,” said Evelyn.
“You met through a website?”
Brooke was being jealous, and thus bitchy, and Evelyn took her time sitting back down before she responded. “We met in Lake James. But yes, I work for a website. People Like Us? There was a Styles feature about it last week.”
“It’s online dating or something?”
“No. Not at all, actually. It’s a social network. We have a few clusters of members. In New York, of course, but also Dubai, London, Geneva. Aspen,” she said pointedly, given that she remembered Brooke’s stepfather had a giant place in Vail so Brooke probably had an inferiority complex about Aspen.
“Well,” said Brooke.
Nick, Preston, Will, and Charlotte tumbled in en masse, midconversation about an acquaintance.
“He went to Wharton, though,” Charlotte was saying.
“He went to Wharton because his father gets everyone else important into Wharton,” Nick said. “His dad fucked up the Federated LBO.”
“His father didn’t get you into Wharton,” Charlotte said.
“Get over yourself, Hillary. The point is, he’s an idiot but his CDO group at Lehman made billions last year. Billions. Enough profits for the whole firm. They package these bullshit mortgages for, what’s the term, Pres?”
“Subprime.”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh, NINJA.”
“Right. No income, no job, no assets.”
“CDO is collateralized debt…,” Charlotte said.
“Obligation,” Nick finished. “Banks selling packages of mortgages made to the losers in Nevada and California.”
“First of all, it’s not the fault of the people getting the loans, it’s the banks’ fault for making the loans. Second of all, the housing market isn’t that hot anymore,” Charlotte said.
“German banks are buying this shit like it’s candy, so it’s a no-lose,” Nick said. “I just can’t believe this Lehman dude gets that kind of bonus.”
“I’m bored,” Camilla said, sauntering back to the table. “Enough business. Do we all know one another?”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Evelyn said quietly to Charlotte as Camilla handled introductions.
“I’m surprised to see me here, too,” Charlotte said. “Pres called me and I was done with work early, and I figured it was worth braving Ms. Rutherford to have a real dinner out and see you two. Nobody’s been in the city all summer.”
“So. Are we all thrilled about our urban weekend?” Camilla said, speaking over Charlotte.
“I thought we were going to get out of the city,” Brooke said. “We didn’t fly in so we could spend the weekend in Manhattan.”
“Well, I thought a weekend here would be fun,” Camilla said coolly. “So you’re welcome to make your own plans if you disagree. For those of us who actually want to have a good time, we’ll have drinks at my place after dinner.”
Brooke exchanged a look with Will that Evelyn couldn’t decipher. “That sounds good,” Brooke said weakly.
“Good,” Camilla said. “Anyway, I told you the Realtor wants to get his beasts into the École, right? So guess who’s been recruited as a debutante supervisor for the Bal?”
Camilla should travel with a translator, Evelyn thought. “The Realtor,” aka Ari, was Souse Rutherford’s boyfriend, he of the BIGDEAL license plate. His company, AF Holdings, owned much of the important real estate in New York—the Pierre Hotel, the Lord & Taylor building. Camilla didn’t like him, hence “the Realtor.” Ari lived in a giant floor-through apartment on Fifth Avenue, having swooped in and gotten a lowball price of $21.5 million when a higher bid by a Bahraini prince was rejected by the co-op board over concerns that his diplomatic immunity would lead to weapons caching in their building. The “beasts” were Ari’s two small children, who were something like four and six, and “the École” was the École Internationale, a French-language school on East End Avenue that was notably hard to get into. And “the Bal”—Evelyn felt like she was completing a timed quiz—was the Bal Français, the debutante ball whose hostesses were largely École parents and board members.
“You as an example to young minds? What on earth are you going to do, lead waltzing lessons and slip them some whip-its?” Preston asked.
�
�And do the danse d’honneur,” Camilla said with a bow. “Where they have the deb from ages past skip around with the ambassador?”
“It’s so important,” said Brooke, with wide eyes. “Bill Cunningham always puts a photo of the danse d’honneur in his column, and Marchesa lent a dress last year to Sophie Gerond for it. Milla. That’s amazing.”
Camilla set a spoon spinning on the tablecloth. “Phoebe’s doing the Assembly and Infirmary, obviously, but my mother has signed her up for the Bal Français in June because Ari thinks it’ll help with his children getting into the École. Who knows?” Camilla said.
The Bal Français, Evelyn knew, ranked near the bottom of the New York balls, but was still important—those who succeeded at the Bal often got invitations for the wintertime balls that were the true society gatherings. However, being a deb at the Bal without following with the Assembly or the Infirmary was like being a Staten Island Yankee.
A waiter put down a bread basket. Charlotte was the only girl to reach for it.
“Does Ari even speak French?” Nick said.
“Ari speaks dollars,” Camilla said. She stood the spoon on its end, and Evelyn watched the light bounce off the metal. “Anyway, darling, it’s not about speaking French. It’s about the school. The École had, like, eleven kids accepted to Yale early this year. I’m sure the Realtor wouldn’t care if they were instructed in Tunisian with that acceptance rate.”
“Tunisian’s not a language,” said Charlotte. “They speak Arabic. And French.”
“Exactly,” said Camilla.
Brooke made a happy moan. “How fun for Phoebe. I did the International in college. I loved it.”
Camilla nodded. “You’re right. The Bal is at least oodles better than the International. Phoebe will have fun,” she said, so quickly that Evelyn wondered if Brooke had even sensed she’d been slighted. “Evelyn, when you debbed, was it a big party or a small one? I don’t even know how it’s done outside of the real cities.”
Evelyn glanced at Charlotte, who had a fat glob of butter on the side of her lip. Evelyn didn’t give her the dab-it-away signal; if Charlotte wanted to do her whole intellectually superior thing with “Tunisian’s not a language,” Evelyn wasn’t going to help her out.
“It’s a party in Baltimore,” Evelyn said. “Medium sized.”
Charlotte pushed her tongue at the spot of butter, but missed it. “You were a debutante, Ev? Why don’t I remember that?”
“Well, who’s going to brag about it, right?” Evelyn gave a high laugh.
“What the what? Why didn’t I get an invitation?” Preston said, adjusting his eyeglasses. “I was the best escort. At one of the balls, I got so smashed that a mother took me outside the Plaza in a snowstorm to try to sober me up. I think I tried to make out with her. I think, in confidence, she slipped me the tongue.”
“Ew!” Evelyn laughed.
“I smuggled in pot when I was an escort,” Nick said. “Trust me, that made the midnight breakfast really tasty.”
Camilla narrowed her eyes at Will. “And you, Will?”
“Oh, I didn’t do that stuff,” he said.
“Oh?” Camilla let the silence fall, waiting a few beats. “So, Birchie,” she continued. “Will may think this all rather puzzling, I suppose, and old-fashioned. For the Bal, you’ll help me, right? My mother has signed me up for the hostess committee—they like a young person to corral the debs—and I can’t handle all those teenagers by myself so she said I could pick someone to do it with me.”
“Oh, my gosh, yes. Of course, Milla.”
“That’s great. It’s not a lot of work, honestly. Just a few meetings and then the ball itself in June.”
“In June?” Brooke shot a glance at Will. “Well, I’d love to, though the thing is, in June I might be busy. Sweetie?”
Will stood up and clinked his spoon against his water glass, an entirely unnecessary motion, as the restaurant was quiet other than their table. “We have an announcement,” he said, leaning too heavily on the “we.” He looked to Brooke, who thrust out her hand, her ring finger erect. It had a diamond ring on it, which she must have slipped on in her pocket, as she hadn’t been wearing it a moment ago. “We’re engaged!” she squealed.
Preston and Nick were instantly on their feet, clapping Will on the back and kissing Brooke on the cheek, and Charlotte got up, too, proffering masculine handshakes to them both, but Evelyn stayed seated when she noticed Camilla, across the table, also seated and carefully folding pleats into her napkin. “Wow, congrats, kids,” Camilla said.
Brooke rushed around the table. “Do you want to see the ring?”
“Yes, definitely,” Camilla said, batting away Brooke’s hand. “It’s so round.”
Evelyn stood up and awkwardly patted Brooke on the back. “That’s great,” she said to Brooke. “So pretty.”
The waiter then appeared with a bottle of champagne and several glasses. “To celebrate!” Will called out, and the group accepted their flutes and Nick called out a toast to the couple.
Camilla drank fast, finishing her champagne in a few sips and holding the glass out for the waiter to refill, then sloshing a bit over the side. “Oops. My cup runneth over,” she said, raising the glass in the direction of the betrothed.
After dinner, Evelyn and Camilla walked straight to Camilla’s apartment; Nick insisted on stopping at the wine store with Preston, arguing that the last time Preston had gotten a Burgundy it was so thin it tasted like it was from Long Island, and Charlotte, who was drunk and arguing with Nick over the 1986 Red Sox lineup, went with them. Brooke, complaining that her heels were too high, said she and Will would take a cab. As Evelyn and Camilla peeled off, they heard Brooke, almost in tears, saying to Will that this was not how her engagement announcement was supposed to go.
Camilla was walking down Madison so quickly that Evelyn had to jog to keep up. “So. What just happened? The engagement theater? I’m surprised there wasn’t a floor show,” Camilla said.
Evelyn measured what she knew: that Camilla and Brooke had been best friends at St. Paul’s, that the wedding was interrupting Camilla’s plans for the Bal, and that Camilla disliked Will. She went with a neutral statement. “They certainly wanted a celebration.”
This worked as she had hoped, eliciting more from Camilla so Evelyn could figure out where to head next. “First of all, they had to have gotten engaged a while ago, and they were just keeping it from us to make us celebrate their fabulous choice. I mean, the viewing of the ring? The ordering of your own celebratory champagne? There are no words. I should’ve ordered my own bottle of champagne and had everyone toast to me.”
“Camilla, for her latest string of successes…,” Evelyn said.
“Right? Why not?” They paused at a red light, a motorcycle zooming past. “You don’t know Brooke, obviously, but back, before, she was the most fun. A total original. And now? Will? Will Brodzik? Evelyn, his parents own a car dealership. A car dealership, Evelyn. And he gets to marry Brooke? Really? I’ll bet that she’ll pull the goalie on the wedding night, and Brooke will be pregnant within a month. Then what? They’ll move to some San Francisco suburb, Will will go to his absurd job and pretend he cares about his career, and that’s it. We were in the same house at St. Paul’s, and senior year she was always talking about living in Italy and designing her own clothing line, and now she’s basically going to be a suburban wife. I mean, what’s the point?” They passed a closed shoe store, the shoes uplit like jewelry. “I’ll bet their first child will be named Will. Their second child will be named Birch. That’s about the level of imagination we’re dealing with. It kills me.”
“Brooke Birch Brodzik?” Evelyn said with a chortle.
“Oh, my God, I hadn’t even thought of that. Brooke Birch Brodzik. Evelyn, there’s so little greatness in our society today, so little actual greatness, and so much—this sounds terrible, but you understand—focus on work and drudgery,” Camilla went on. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Like a cat.” This wasn’t quite the comparison Evelyn was looking for.
“I’m going to quit,” Camilla said.
“Quit work?”
“Let’s be honest—it’s pointless, isn’t it? I don’t know what me learning about Microsoft Outlook is going to do for the world. It’s not good for the skin, or for the body, to sit inside an office all day. I think I’d be so much more useful and helpful to society if I became more involved in real work now, rather than pretending like I care about coordinating the waiters’ outfits for another event.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Evelyn said.
“Will Brodzik! When people our age are actually doing things. Like Jaime de Cardenas, and yet there’s boring Will.” She swung her arms like an ape.
“Jaime? Completely,” Evelyn said carefully.
“You know him?”
“I know—I think I’ve met him at the Harvard Club,” Evelyn said.
“I think he’s going to be a great man. A great man. Are you going to marry Scot?”
“I’ve only been dating him for a couple of months.”
“I see.” Camilla frowned, though lightly; she was always careful not to frown in a way that would increase wrinkles. “It’s so hard to imagine Scot at Harvard, isn’t it?” She turned onto Seventy-first. “Scot’s a good match for you, anyway.”
Message received, thought Evelyn, trying not to roll her eyes at Camilla’s undercutting.
At Camilla’s apartment, a classic six on Fifth that looked over the Central Park Zoo, the group reassembled. By the fourth bottle of wine, Brooke had brought the conversation back to her engagement.
“I wanted to do Asscher cut, though I had always thought of myself as a princess-cut girl, so that’s what we ended up going with,” Brooke was saying.
“Wow,” said Camilla, looking at the ring with a big smile. “It’s so beautiful, Birchie. Just what you always wanted. So you’re thinking June?”
“I think so. It’s so much planning. My mom is helping me, of course, and she thinks June flowers will be just right, with the roses and the lilies.”
Everybody Rise Page 16