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Skinnydipping

Page 26

by Bethenny Frankel


  This is it, I thought. Are we going to win, or is she going to surprise us all and choose the other team? I wouldn’t put it past her. I held my breath. I couldn’t stand the suspense. We couldn’t rely on anything anymore. Reality? Common sense? The sun coming up tomorrow? At this point, who knew?

  We waited. And waited. For what seemed like long, crawling, torturous minutes, the clock ticking in slow motion. Finally, she spoke.

  “Christophe, although you seemed to be a weak leader who let Shari take over, a good leader does know how to delegate effectively, and your team created a spectacular table. I have chosen it to be featured in our magazine, on our show, and most important, for our family Thanksgiving dinner. And as a special surprise, your team will be joining my family for Thanksgiving dinner, so I will see you all tomorrow in Larchmont.”

  Everyone on our team let out a collective sigh. Shari looked delighted. “Thank you, Sybil!” she said. “I’m so honored to win again. And so honored to be invited to your home.” Monica and Mikki looked at each other and rolled their eyes. I could tell Shari was wearing on their nerves.

  “Andy, your team loses this challenge,” Sybil continued. “And one of you will be eliminated. Shari, you and your team may leave the room.”

  Ten minutes later, the door opened. Andy strutted into the room, followed by Linda, Jodi Sue, Nadine, and Katie. “Old McDonald had a farm… and she just went back there. See ya!” Andy said brazenly. I couldn’t help being disappointed that it wasn’t Katie. Sadie didn’t have anything against me. Katie seemed ready to hire a hit man to take me out, for whatever reason.

  “So it’s Sadie. The farmer’s gone,” Shari said, nodding. “I had a feeling.”

  “Thank God. I couldn’t stand another minute of her organic local seasonal blah blah blah,” Andy said, adjusting his tie.

  “She was boring,” Monica said. “And she needs to cut off that crazy long hair. And she was like … a nothing. She had no personality.”

  “As opposed to your excess of personality?” Andy said.

  “My personality is sparkling, like champagne!” said Monica. “Can we go back to the Loft now? I need a drink.”

  Back at the Loft, Monica poured herself a glass of wine. Linda and Andy took energy bars from the cupboard and supercharged caffeine drinks from the refrigerator. “You’re drinking that now? That’s the last thing you need,” Katie said to Andy, as she opened another bag of black licorice.

  I was dead tired, but I knew I needed some kind of nourishment, so I went into the kitchen and cooked myself some scrambled eggs. “That smells great,” said Mikki. “Will you make me some?” It was the first time I’d ever seen her eat anything.

  “Don’t make me any!” said Shari. “I’m just going to enjoy the smell. I can’t spare another calorie today.” She grabbed a bottle of club soda from the refrigerator. “So it was interesting to have Harry Jansen involved today, don’t you all think?” she addressed the room generally, and carefully did not look at me, but I could tell she suspected something.

  “I heard he really was engaged,” said Monica. “I read it in a gossip magazine. This Christine person is a supermodel, and they were photographed together at a club.”

  Knife to my heart! A supermodel? I sighed. I wasn’t really holding out any hope about Harris. But it still bothered me a little. A supermodel. Fantastic. I ate the eggs slowly, chewing carefully, and thinking, thinking. I couldn’t turn off my brain. Let it go, Faith, I told myself. Let him go. He’s not the one for you.

  I had to seduce Sybil, not her son, and today had given me a little hope. If I could just keep going, if I could keep from getting distracted, making any mistakes, falling asleep on my feet, fainting from starvation, or additionally offending Sybil, then maybe, just maybe, I could come out on top.

  chapter twenty-six

  As the limousine pulled into the long, tree-lined driveway that led up to Sybil Hunter’s waterfront estate in Larchmont, Shari, Mikki, Christophe, Monica, and I—the winning team—stared out the window at the gardens and orchards and the acres of lawn, gorgeous in summer, even though we were pretending it was Thanksgiving. I couldn’t believe I was going to her house! And then I saw it: a four-story storm-gray Victorian with white gingerbread trim.

  It was even more incredible on the inside: gleaming oak floors, ivory-painted crown moldings, big windows, a marble fireplace, chandeliers everywhere, along with more rustic elements—a willow chair, natural wood beams, big vases of cut flowers and tropical trees in pots, sun pouring into the windows.

  “Why does she have animal heads on the walls?” whispered Shari.

  “It’s weird!” Monica whispered. “I feel like that moose head is looking at me!”

  Rasputin, Sybil’s Newfie, trotted into the entryway to meet us, his big fluffy tail wagging agreeably. Then Polly came down the stairs. “Welcome,” she said. “Sybil would like you to put your things on this table, and then I’ll give you a tour. I’m sure you want to see the house.” Everyone nodded eagerly.

  “Come this way,” Polly said. “Now, we’ll start in the great room. As you can see, Sybil collects taxidermy.”

  “So fascinating!” said Shari. “What an idea!” She cast me a look. The more Shari relaxed, the more she criticized Sybil behind her back, telling everyone how Sybil’s style was too WASP-y, how everybody really knew that Sybil was born a Jew but pretended not to be, and how this dilution of her natural heritage had leached out all her character. Of course, in front of Sybil, Shari was as ingratiating and tractable as a well-trained Labrador retriever.

  Polly took us from room to room, each more beautiful and fabulous than the next, and finally made it to Sybil’s country kitchen. I felt like I had already been there from reading all her cookbooks, but it was still a highlight of my life to actually be in it.

  It was a dream kitchen to beat all dream kitchens. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets set with antique glass, infinite marble countertops, a huge butcher-block island, and the biggest pot rack I’d ever seen, hung with stainless-steel and copper pots and pans and bakeware of every shape and size and era, from sleek and modern pieces to rare antiques that probably came from Europe. One counter was devoted to a massive Italian espresso maker, and the cabinet above was stocked with every possible cup and plate related to serving coffee or tea. Another area was set up just for baking, with double ovens under a massive cast-iron gas stove. The refrigerator was actually a restaurant-style walk-in. There was enough room in there for an entire side of beef.

  “This is incredible,” Mikki said, peering over my shoulder. “Is anybody ever even here to use this kitchen?”

  “Wow.” It was all I could say.

  “Does she have a wine cellar?” Monica asked hopefully.

  “Yes, but we won’t be going down there today,” Polly said.

  “Does she have a butler?” Mikki asked.

  “No,” Polly said. “But she does have a gardening staff, two housekeepers, and a chef.”

  I was dying with envy, and with respect for what Sybil Hunter had amassed. So she had a bitchy side. After seeing her house, I felt more inclined to excuse it. If it were my house and my money, I probably would have had a lot less stuff. The antiques, supplies, furniture were overwhelming. I would have been more minimalist. Still, I was overwhelmed with what she had accomplished. You had to be aggressive to get the kind of success that could buy resources like this, unless you were born into them. Sybil was self-made. I understood why so many women wanted to be her. It was the domestic dream. The woman had an entire room devoted to wrapping gifts!

  But at the same time, all the provincialities of domesticity were absent. Sybil was no old-fashioned, subservient, doting housewife at the mercy of her husband’s money and power. She wasn’t making martinis for her man at the end of the day. She was making them for herself. She was the homemaker, not the housewife. There was no room for wife in her life. She embraced domesticity on her own terms. She was an independent, wealthy, powerful businesswoman m
arketing the My Three Sons concept, the Donna Reed lifestyle, even though she was anything but Donna Reed. I admired it—worshipped it, even. I also wondered if it was lonely.

  “I think they’re done shooting the table,” Polly said, after answering her cell phone. “We can go back into the dining room now.”

  “I didn’t realize we were being kept out of the way,” Shari said, offended that they hadn’t asked her to consult on the photo shoot.

  “It’s time for cocktails,” Polly said. “Just as a reminder, please keep in mind that you are in Sybil Hunter’s home.” She said it like she would tell us we were in the Vatican. Shari raised her eyebrows at me.

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “It just means that it’s important to behave with a certain … decorum,” she said, glancing at Monica.

  Suddenly I got nervous. Harris would be in there. I was about to see him. And the mysterious Christine—fiancée, supermodel, whatever she was.

  I was irritated at myself for feeling so obsessed. Harris was just another guy in just another club. I could meet another guy like him in a minute. So what if he was engaged, in quotation marks or not in quotation marks? Who cares? Not me, I told myself, striding boldly into the dining room.

  Our table really did look beautiful. It was the first thing I noticed. Then I saw Sybil, Alice, Harris, and a pale, thin, pretty young woman with long blonde curls. Across the room was an older woman who had to be Judith, Sybil’s mother, laughing at something Ian was saying. The rest of them were standing around the table, drinking champagne from crystal champagne flutes and talking in low voices. As we entered, Sybil turned to us. “Here they are,” she said. “Everyone, let’s welcome the winning team!”

  Alice and Ian put down their glasses to clap for us. Judith, who could have been an aged copy of Sybil herself, but with short-cropped white hair and large round eyeglasses with dark red frames, surveyed us critically. “Help yourselves to a well-deserved glass of champagne,” Sybil said, almost warmly. As we moved past the table to the champagne fountain, I noticed Sybil had made some alterations to our design.

  Shari noticed, too, and since she’d taken credit for the whole thing, she took the edits as a personal affront. “She changed the flower arrangement,” she said. “And those roses aren’t as nice as ours. Who supplies her roses? My husband needs to supply her roses.”

  “She grows her own roses, Shari,” I whispered back.

  “Oh, right.” Clearly, Shari didn’t approve.

  Monica and Shari picked at the appetizers, but I wasn’t hungry at all. I was too nervous. I looked back to where Harris was standing, looking uncomfortable, while the pretty pale girl chattered to him. She appeared luminescent in the dim light of the dining room, her long curls like a mermaid’s. She had a strange, otherworldly beauty. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been hit by a train. Gray hairs were growing in, and I had black circles under my eyes that made them look like empty sockets. She looked fresh as a daisy. She was also wearing an incredibly short skirt—even shorter than the girl in the club that Harris had left with. He must like short skirts. I looked down at my own modest-for-the-show hemline. Then I noticed Sybil watching the two of them fondly. But Harris seemed uninterested. Maybe even unhappy. And then he looked at me.

  Our eyes locked again—I wished he would stop doing that to me! It felt like an electric shock. Then his whole face softened. He smiled just slightly, almost apologetically. I smiled back. I didn’t know what it meant—were we agreeing that he was unavailable? Was he saying he was sorry for all the misunderstandings? Was he telling me that no, she was not the one for him—that maybe he was trying to untangle himself from something, and he wanted me to understand?

  “Shall we sit down?” Sybil said suddenly. I wondered if she’d seen me making eyes at her son. I looked down at the place cards. They weren’t the same ones Monica had drawn, but they were written in silver on card stock, tucked into Christophe’s white-painted pinecones. I was seated between Shari and Christophe, as far from Harris as possible. Had he told his mother about me? Now I was paranoid.

  Sybil raised her glass. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us this Thanksgiving. I’m so happy to have you all here, to share in this very special holiday with me.” The cameras hovered. “I want to welcome the winning team from my show, to share in this dinner at this beautiful table, which they so creatively designed. I want to welcome my mother, who taught me everything I know,” Sybil said, raising her glass.

  I’d seen her mother only once, on Sybil Hunter’s show, and she’d always seemed tough, or at least not very nurturing. In person, she looked energetic and feisty. She raised her glass, too. “You’re still learning, my dear,” she said. Alice smirked.

  Sybil smiled stiffly and continued. “And to my sister, Alice, an asset to my business. And to my son, Harry, my pride and joy.” Harris looked uncomfortable, but raised his glass civilly. “I also want to welcome my good friend and colleague, Ian, and my late best friend’s daughter, Christine. I’ve always considered her part of the family.” She raised her glass and we toasted.

  Then the kitchen staff began to bring out the food.

  We had course after course—not the menu from the challenge I’d designed, of course, but certainly one that Sybil had decided on herself. As each dish came out, Sybil regaled us with the details of what it was and how she had prepared it, and Judith added her commentary about what was done well or not quite right.

  “Alice makes the cranberries better,” Sybil’s mother griped.

  “Unofficially,” said Alice, smiling at her sister. “Officially, I can’t cook at all.”

  I was astounded by how good everything tasted, and by the sheer amount of food. I didn’t want to miss a single dish, so I was careful to taste everything but never eat more than a few bites of anything.

  As we ate, Christine, “the fiancée,” kept looking at us, the contestants. Finally, she addressed us, her voice soft and musical, like a lullaby. “What’s it like to be on Sybil’s show?” The question was a general one, so Shari jumped in to answer.

  “It’s such an honor,” she said, glancing at Sybil. “It’s the rarest of opportunities. We’re all soo thankful.” Leave it to Shari to go for the extra brownnose points.

  “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Monica said, her cheeks flushed from the champagne, already a little tipsy. “I can’t believe how hard it is. Such long hours and so much stress. I really think it’s asking too much. No offense, Sybil,” she said.

  “It’s only going to get harder, my dear,” Sybil assured her.

  Mikki nodded shyly. “It’s intense, but it’s thrilling, too,” she said in her quiet voice. She took another bite of turkey. “This food is so delicious, Sybil.”

  Sybil nodded approvingly. “Excuse me while I check on the dessert,” she said. She got up and left the table.

  That’s when Christine turned her gaze to me, her fork poised just over the peas on her plate. “And what about you? Faith, is it?” she said. I sensed a sudden chilliness in her tone. Her eyes were drilling into me. Had she seen Harris looking at me? Had he said something to her? “This must be quite a step up from selling your little muffins?”

  I looked right at her. “Definitely a step up,” I said. “My baking business has really taught me a lot. I owe my place on this show to those little muffins.”

  “That’s so sweet,” she said, dismissively.

  I paused. Don’t say it, Faith. But I couldn’t help myself. “I hope you don’t plan to step up in that skirt, or we’ll all be able to see your muffin,” I added.

  Shari almost spit out her drink. Mikki’s eyes went wide. Christine opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She just stared at me. Harris looked like he might burst out laughing.

  Of course, this now meant war. I remembered that Polly had told us to act with decorum. But Christine started it. And Sybil was, at least temporarily, out of the room.

  “Aren’t you funn
y,” Christine said.

  “That’s what they tell me,” I said, smiling at her.

  “The flower business taught me a lot about the world, too,” Shari chimed in, uncomfortable that the attention had shifted off of her. “You know, flowers are what won us this very challenge. We wouldn’t be here in this beautiful house if it weren’t for flowers!”

  “What do you do?” Mikki asked Christine. “I think I’ve heard you’re a model? I’ve always wanted to try modeling.”

  “Christine is the daughter of my dear friend Pamela Claiborne,” Sybil said, coming back into the room with a tray of mini cream puffs and a silver pot of coffee. “God rest her soul.”

  Shari and I stared at each other. Pamela Claiborne! We both knew who Pamela Claiborne was—former founder and CEO of Claiborne Cosmetics, and one of the richest women in the United States, until her death last year. Maybe even richer than Sybil Hunter herself. If her daughter was heir to the Claiborne fortune … I looked at Harris hopelessly. Why would he ever choose someone like me over someone like her? She had an angelic face, perfect skin, glorious hair, and one of those bodies that looked like it had never once dared to put on an unnecessary pound. Plus, millions of dollars. And she adored Harris, that was clear. Besides, he’d been so silent, so compliant through the whole meal, I was beginning to suspect he was just some mama’s boy who was going to do whatever his mother told him. He could cast me all the longing looks he wanted. I was more interested in action. Was he a man or wasn’t he?

  “I model on the side sometimes, just for fun,” she said.

  Now that was a kick in the balls, I thought. Just for fun? She occasionally poses in pictures looking flawless and beautiful just for fun?

  Suddenly, I couldn’t eat another bite. I downed the rest of my champagne in one gulp, and the server immediately stepped forward to refill my glass. I didn’t look at Harris again for the rest of the meal, pretending instead to be fascinated with Shari’s endless story about her husband’s long list of celebrity clientele and which kind of flower each celebrity preferred.

 

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