Everybody Rise

by Stephanie Clifford

  “Dad, forget about the pigeon. What I was saying is, most people in New York get help from their parents, and on my salary, it’s not exactly easy to keep up.”

  “You’re not most people. You were raised with some standards.”

  “But Dad. I know it sounds dumb, but these benefits are really expensive.”

  “Benefits, Evelyn? If you want to go to parties, you can pay for those parties.” He waved his hand at the counterman. “I think I just might have to try some of that special ham.”

  Evelyn twisted around again, but the man was busy with another customer. She turned back to her father. “The benefits are part of my work, and I’m just asking for the smallest bit of help.”

  Dale moved his lips to one side as Evelyn caught sight of her mother walking into the restaurant. Barbara wore the giant sunglasses that she had lately started to wear from first light until dusk. She carried a lilac Bergdorf’s bag, though Evelyn could see a larger Duane Reade one crammed into it.

  “Mom, Dad and I were just talking about whether I could get some extra money going forward. All of these benefits and dinners and trips add up,” Evelyn said.

  “I was telling Evelyn that I do not want to step in to fund a social life,” Dale said. “If it were true living needs, that might be another matter, but I don’t think a party dress qualifies as a necessity.”

  “Your pocket square cost two hundred dollars!” Evelyn spat.

  “I made my money and can spend it as I want, just as you can spend the money you make as you want.”

  “Right. Silly me.”

  “I’ve had this argument with your father for decades, Evelyn. He has no idea what it costs to maintain a semblance of a social life,” Barbara said. She still hadn’t taken off her sunglasses. “Are we supposed to sit at this communal table?”

  “Mom,” Evelyn said. “Just sit. It’s supposed to be like Spain.”

  Barbara grudgingly balanced herself on a stool. “Dale, Evelyn is having the time of her life, and that doesn’t come for free.”

  “Then she can pay for it. Simple as that,” Dale said.

  They were all fuming and all looking at different walls. The counter guy approached, evaluated them, and retreated.

  Finally, Barbara said, “Your father’s right, dear. Budgeting is important.”

  “Mom.” Evelyn was exasperated.

  “How’s the apartment search going?” Barbara said.

  “What?”

  “Evie was planning on moving,” Barbara said, to Evelyn’s surprise; she wasn’t. “Her apartment now is rather dangerous. The location, that is. We’d been talking about her moving west of Lexington, where it’s less seedy.” Barbara shot Evelyn a conspiratorial smile. “Wasn’t there an incident outside your apartment recently, Evelyn? A safety incident? That’s why we’d been talking about the move.”

  “Right,” said Evelyn, getting the hint. “Right. The apartment I’m looking at is quite a bit more expensive, though. Because it has twenty-four-hour security, which is important these days, because of the crime. It also has an alarm system.”

  “I didn’t think your neighborhood was high crime,” Dale said.

  “It’s becoming so, with the projects; there are lots of muggings, and where I am just doesn’t feel that safe at night,” Evelyn said. High crime in that occasionally a teenager from Brearley stole some nail polish from Duane Reade, but she didn’t need to specify that. “The new building isn’t that much more money. It’s just a few hundred more a month. I think that’s invaluable in terms of me feeling secure.” She felt bad as she watched her father consider this, but also remembered what her mother always said: that because he was insistent on controlling the money, he was the one who forced them to act this way.

  “Where’s the new apartment?” he said.

  “It’s, um, Sixty-eighth. East Sixty-eighth. Just off Park.”

  “It’s a few hundred more a month?”

  “Right.”

  “I guess that’s reasonable,” he said. “I want you to get some Mace, too.”

  “Of course.” She and her mother smiled at each other. Evelyn would stay at the Petit Trianon, easy enough to conceal from her father since he never visited, but the difference in “rent” would mean $400 more a month straight to her. After just a few months of that, she calculated, she could afford the Chanel cap-toe ballet flats she’d been coveting. Budgeting wasn’t so hard.

  “New York is full of crime.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  Her phone rang and she looked down. She had promised to meet Camilla for a pedicure in the Village and needed to leave momentarily. She picked it up and told Camilla that she was at Bar Jamón, trying to wrap up with her parents, and she’d hurry to Jin Soon afterward.

  Mission accomplished on the money, Evelyn was asking her father questions about the Tar Heels’ football season ten minutes later, when a gust of cold air and pavement smell announced the arrival of someone from the street. Evelyn turned around and saw with a start that Camilla was cantering toward them. Evelyn just had time to turn back to her parents and whisper, “That’s Camilla Rutherford. Don’t—”

  “Hello!” Camilla called out merrily. “Mr. Beegan. Mrs. Beegan. It’s such a pleasure. I’m Camilla Rutherford. I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I was nearby and Evelyn said you were here. I couldn’t pass up the chance to meet you.”

  “Camilla!” said Evelyn. Why had her father chosen today to wear that ridiculous maroon jacket? “What a surprise. These are my parents, but I guess that’s obvious.”

  “It is so nice to meet you,” said Camilla earnestly, shaking Barbara’s hand and submitting to Dale’s grasp-and-pump. Evelyn noticed that the cuffs of his shirt were too short and that he was wearing a yellow LIVESTRONG wristband.

  “Mom, Dad, we’re actually late for a pedicure appointment, so we should probably be going,” Evelyn said. “Mom, can we figure out the check situation tomorrow morning? I can come by your hotel.”

  “No, no,” said Camilla, “don’t be silly. We can get a pedicure anytime, but it’s not every day the Beegans are in town.”

  “We have six o’clock appointments.” Evelyn had to cut this off, or who knows what her parents would say? Her mother would say something to give herself—and thus Evelyn—away as solidly middle class, and her father would be all oozy Southerner.

  Camilla waved her hand. “Evelyn, don’t worry about it. Jin Soon can take us anytime. This is such a pleasure for me.”

  “I made the Jin Soon appointment three weeks ago,” Evelyn protested.

  “Well, why don’t you sit down, Camilla?” Dale said. “I’m having this fancy ham, and I’ve got to say, it’s pretty good.”

  “No, we’re really in a hurry. It’s just jamón serrano, Dad. It’s not that rare. They have it everywhere in New York,” Evelyn said.

  “The new gourmet store in Easton has plenty of it, Dale,” Barbara said. “Really, it’s not like we live in a backwater.”

  “I’d love to join you,” Camilla said. “What kind of coffee are you having, Mr. Beegan? That looks delicious. I’ll have one of those. And some of the jamón, too, why not?”

  “We don’t have time to stay. We really have to go,” Evelyn said.

  “Camilla, I understand you’re very involved in visual arts philanthropy,” Barbara said, “as am I. Evelyn sent photos of you at the MoMA event and I thought your dress was just stunning.”

  “No! I didn’t send photos,” Evelyn said. She had. “You’re thinking of—I think you saw the paper the next day. I didn’t send photos. Honestly. So weird. So it’s a black coffee, Camilla?”

  “An Americano, they call it here,” Dale said, signaling to the counterman. “Yo soy Americano.”

  “Dale learned Spanish to talk to some of his lower-class clients,” Barbara offered.

  “The coffee?” Evelyn almost yelled. “Another Americano? Please?”

  “Now, Camilla, I hear you’re rising through the banking world as fast as a jack
rabbit,” Dale said.

  “Dad, that’s Charlotte, and it’s private equity. Charlotte’s my Sheffield roommate? Who you’ve known for, like, ten years? Camilla doesn’t work in banking.”

  “It’s so easy to mix up, Mr. Beegan,” Camilla said, and Evelyn got the unnerving feeling that Camilla was flirting with her father. “All of these New York girls and our jobs. But, no, I worked in event planning and community relations until recently.”

  “Community relations, that’s wonderful. I always tell Evelyn that you have to consider the wider world in your work, but I’m not sure she listens.”

  “For Vogue,” Evelyn said, digging her nails into her wrist. “Vogue magazine? The fashion magazine?”

  “This is delicious,” Camilla said, smelling her coffee like it was wine. “Excellent recommendation, Mr. Beegan.”

  “Isn’t it tasty?” Dale asked, the “idn’t” ringing in Evelyn’s ears at the same time that Barbara said, too familiarly, “Camilla, how is your mother?” as though she and Souse had met.

  Camilla looked from one of them to the other, and apparently chose Dale. “Mr. Beegan,” she said, leaning close to him, “I hope I’m not being too aggressive, but I wanted to talk to you in person about the Luminaries support.”

  “Oh, Camilla, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it,” Evelyn said, her heartbeat increasing.

  “That’s why I dropped by,” said Camilla, putting her hand on Dale’s arm; both Evelyn and Barbara looked at the hand with suspicion. “I thought we should talk about it one-on-one. The Luminaries, Mr. Beegan, is such a marvelous event. It’s thought leaders from business, the arts, philanthropy, and, of course, law”—she squeezed his arm—“coming together to talk about ideas. I would be honored if you would be my guest, and a Luminary Patron.”

  “Your guest? Surely you can find someone younger and more lively than me.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Beegan. You would be perfect for it. It’s a really nice event. It’s at Georgette Scharffenberg’s apartment, Constellation Capital, and it has the feel of a private dinner, so it’s not too formal,” Camilla said.

  “Constellation Capital,” Dale said. “The private-equity firm? I don’t think they’d be too happy to see me. They backed a company I recently won a settlement against.”

  “We have all sorts of interesting financial firms in Bibville these days,” Barbara interrupted.

  “Mom,” said Evelyn. Barbara was not acting like a shipping heiress in the slightest.

  “Oh, no, it’s not like that,” Camilla purred, ignoring both the women. “It’s purely a social event. Honestly, David Boies came last year and everyone loved him, even though the people hosting last year basically single-handedly funded the Bush side of Bush v. Gore.”

  The thought of her father circulating around a party talking about his mill-town childhood to Georgette Scharffenberg made Evelyn cringe. Why did Camilla want him, anyway? Souse could help Camilla line up whomever she wanted—and then Evelyn felt hot. Of course. A double whammy. This way, Camilla got the $25,000 donation, which would help her overall social power, but bringing an under-investigation Southern plaintiffs’ lawyer to the party would be a giant fuck-you to Souse and would lend Camilla some rebellious notoriety.

  Evelyn pushed a knife across the table to get her mother’s attention, and, when Barbara looked up, Evelyn gave her a hard look and mouthed, Grand jury. Her mother could put a stop to this, and would at least want to protect the family’s, if not Dale’s, reputation in New York. “I’m not sure the time is quite right,” Barbara said, taking the cue. “Dale is trying to focus just on his work these days and not on public appearances. Aren’t you, Dale?”

  “Well, this doesn’t sound too public,” Dale said.

  “There’s also a donation involved, right, Camilla? A donation. A required donation,” Evelyn said. She was almost shouting.

  “The Patrons support the event, but almost all the money goes to literary programs for underprivileged youths, like library makeovers in public schools. It’s really a terrific cause,” Camilla said.

  “I’d be proud to support a cause like that,” Dale said.

  “It’s just, in terms of your money—attention—time—time—maybe it’s not a great time,” Evelyn stuttered, standing up from the table.

  “Are you trying to stop him from going?” Camilla said. Her voice was innocent, but her eyes were flaring.

  “No! No. Of course not. It sounds lovely. Just, Dad can overcommit himself so easily. Can’t you, Dad?”

  Dale grinned at Camilla. “I do overcommit myself, but this sounds like such a nice invitation that I may have to say yes.”

  “I think it’ll be fantastic, Mr. Beegan. So fun. I read your guest lecture at UNC on how Wall Street is working against the American public, and I know the other attendees would love to hear about that.”

  “I can’t imagine that anyone wants to hear about that,” Barbara said, not very quietly.

  “Camilla,” Evelyn said, almost pleading. Her father looked so buoyed. Evelyn wanted to protect him; Evelyn wanted to sacrifice him. Evelyn mostly just wanted to get the hell out of there. She started edging toward the door as though she could magnetically pull Camilla with her.

  “I’d be honored,” Dale said, beaming.

  “I’ll put you down as a Luminary Patron,” Camilla said. “Thank you so much, Mr. Beegan.”

  Evelyn stayed standing, tapping her foot and willing Camilla to get up and leave; Camilla finally did, following Evelyn outside and hissing, “What was that? You’re supposed to help me.”

  “I was. I was! He’s honestly really busy.”

  “Too busy for me, I guess?”

  “No, that’s not it. At all. There’s just a lot going on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, and thirty minutes late for their appointments, Evelyn and Camilla descended into Jin Soon on Jones Street. Camilla picked up a gray-brown polish from the rack of polishes. “Make sure he can go. All right?”

  Evelyn shook her head no, but said, “Okay. Okay.”

  Camilla handed Evelyn the nail-polish bottle. “This would look good on your toes,” she said. It was the color of dried mud.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Appointment Book

  Fall whirled by, orange-tinted afternoons and thick white envelopes holding party invitations. There was the Tuesday evening when Camilla invited Evelyn to dinner at the Colony Club, the old-money women’s club on the Upper East Side that Evelyn had walked by many times but never been inside before. Camilla, as she led Evelyn through the lobby, mentioned she always had her birthday dinner at the Colony on her exact birthday, July 13, and that she would’ve invited Evelyn to her most recent birthday party a few months earlier had she only known Evelyn better then. Evelyn was happy to be in the Colony at all, especially for a dinner à deux with Camilla, though she was surprised by how shabby parts of it were, with the lumpy old couches that would’ve been relegated to the cat in any new-money house but here were a marker of WASP thrift. The food was sub-country-club level, broiled fish and Waldorf salads served in a coral dining room. Evelyn saw women talking to the open air and realized they were used to addressing expectant servants.

  There was the Thursday afternoon when Camilla insisted that Evelyn join her for the Met’s Louis Comfort Tiffany exhibit (for which, Evelyn noticed when reading one of the introductory wall plaques, Camilla’s grandparents’ family foundation had provided generous funding). Evelyn called in sick to People Like Us for the day to do it. Afterward, they went to E.A.T. for salads. Camilla, not wanting to use the bathroom there, insisted on going to Evelyn’s apartment instead. With each block east, Evelyn felt her dread rise; she couldn’t remember whether she had just hinted to Camilla that she lived just off Madison, or whether she’d said so definitively. As Camilla started to make jokes about the Orient, Evelyn grappled to explain how she had gotten stuck so far east: her father’s secretary had found the apartment and signed her up for a long-term lease. Evelyn ran int
o the apartment ahead of Camilla and, while Camilla was in the bathroom, sprinted around picking up the Mitford and Post and Fussell as if they were porn, shoving them under her bed, and throwing a blanket over her stack of twee Rodgers and Hammerstein CDs. Camilla found her in the bedroom, took one look at Evelyn’s floral-patterned bedspread, and said that Scot must feel like he was sleeping in a dollhouse.

  Evelyn got highlights that made her a blonde for the first time and signed up for three-times-a-week blowouts with Camilla’s stylist so her hair could approach Camilla’s level of shiny perfection. The price struck her as high at first, but she found that, freeingly, the more she spent, the less she cared. Her mother had come up with a secret check from somewhere, giving Evelyn an extra $10,000 and telling her to spend it wisely, along with the difference in rent money for the “new apartment.” Evelyn understood that spending it wisely meant spending it on establishing herself in this scene. She bought a high-powered T3 hair dryer so her hair was always straight and voluminous, though she couldn’t use it at the same time as her window air conditioner without blowing a fuse. She navigated the main floors at Barneys and Bergdorf’s and Saks, picking up just the right toiletries: she bought the $23 hand soap from Molton Brown, scented with white mulberry and bay leaves. She bought the boar brush from Mason Pearson. She bought Perles de Lalique, in large part because Camilla liked the bottle, even though the perfume smelled weirdly of black pepper; she hoped she would become one of those women known for her classic scent, so when she stepped into the room people would say, “Ah. Evelyn.” At an antiques dealer in Soho, she bought an Art Deco sideboard for her living room to house the full set of silverware her mother had recently sent; Babs had enclosed a note saying Evelyn would need to start entertaining soon and might find it useful. After spending an irritating seven minutes with a jar of silver polish, Evelyn loaded the silverware into a tote bag and took it to the Indian restaurant three doors down, offering a Bangladeshi busboy $100 if he would wash and polish it. He agreed, and Evelyn now found it quite chic to breeze by on the way home and pick up her glimmering silver and some papadum.