Wolves in Chic Clothing

by Carrie Karasyov

  “She borrows everything and plays it all like they’re so big,” chimed in another powersnob, “and meanwhile they live in a rental on Second Avenue!”

  Diana shot the girl a look and then glanced down, embarrassed. Then she looked at Hope. The other girls all quietly looked down at their teacups, realizing that Diana’s brother and his wife lived in a rental, too. Oops.

  After a very pregnant pause, someone looked at Hope to break the silence and said, “I mean, not that that’s bad . . . there are some very nice family rentals—”

  “Oh, it’s fine!” said Hope with a good-sport smile, “we love our little place. You know what they say, there’s no place like hovel,” she smiled, disarming the group with her humor. Diana shot her a look, however, which meant, in no uncertain terms, can it. If you don’t make bank, don’t advertise it.

  Outside in the misty April afternoon, Hope was partly relieved to be out of there but partly riled up in a frenzy of hatred. She loved New York so much, and yet there were times where she wanted to pack it all up and haul ass to Duluth and start anew, where her husband’s income would make them the mansion-owning richest family in the town. But then again, she’d never really do that; it was all a fleeting fantasy she didn’t even truly want. She remembered how after September 11 Diana dramatically swooped up her kids at their school, preschool, and pre-preschools with the chauffeur, and headed home to pack. As soon as the United States airspace reopened, she headed straight to Teterboro and hopped the private jet to Palm Beach, where she decamped for eight months until the Defcon alert was lowered to Code Mauve.

  She told her brother Charlie to do the same, but, hello, he had to work! Plus Hope said in no uncertain terms that she would rather eat her spleen than move in with Diana down south, no matter how big their oceanfront estate was. It was still fucking Florida. And after all, she’d rather die of anthrax than die of boredom.

  “Hope? Hi!”

  Hope’s musings were halted by a familiar voice. She turned to find John Cavanaugh walking out of a lunch at Daniel.

  “John! Hi, oh my goodness, sorry, I could not be more spaced out. What are you doing in town, isn’t your office in Greenwich?”

  “Yeah, but I had an investor lunch. Hey, and I just was thinking of you.”

  Hope blushed. “You were?”

  “Yeah, I had a great talk with Charlie this morning—he’s a great guy. I’m hoping he can join our team, there may be a position opening up.”

  Oh. He thought of her because of Charlie. Not because he was dreaming about her running toward him in a bikini, Phoebe Cates–style. “Great!” was all she could muster.

  “Yeah, he’s a great guy.” He looked at her warmly. “Not to mention a lucky guy.”

  Yes! Ridgemont High fantasy alive and well. “Oh, thanks,” Hope smiled, heart racing.

  “I was just going to check out the Whitney Biennial since I’m in town. I have another meeting at the Mark right by there at four, so . . . would you care to join me?”

  Mrs. Matthews would be delighted. They strolled up Madison to the hulking charcoal gray museum, which Hope often called the Shitney due to certain exhibitions that weren’t her cup of jasmine tea. The last few biennials she had attended seemed dead set on eschewing all connections to the canons of figurative art. Instead they were weird political works she couldn’t relate to: angry word paintings or violent blobs and video installations of screaming moaning people. No thanks. But then this exhibit was . . . well, divine. Not because there was a new exciting man by her side but because the art did what it was supposed to do: inspire. They walked in silence by many of the clearly skillfully made works, charged with an overpowering, warm surge from the color and dimension of the sometimes obsessively handmade sculptures and the brilliant draftsmanship of crosshatched graphite lines on hundreds of squares of paper.

  One installation had a guard outside, who sealed the viewers inside the room for thirty seconds, one by one, but John quickly snuck in with her. It was called Fireflies on the Water by Yayoi Kusama and was a room with mirrored walls and floor and ceiling with thousands of tiny pinhead-sized bulbs that reflected infinitely off the glass and the watery pool below the lucite platform they stood on together. The two were floating in a lilting sea of heightened sensory awareness, finding a fleeting beat of quiet in a bustling museum in a bustling city; their only responsibility to drink in the glistening silence. It was a perfect, delicate moment, of twinkling light in inky darkness and the subtle sound of water below. Hope didn’t know where these ethereal fake fireflies began or ended, but she did know one thing: she never wanted to leave.

  chapter 26

  “I feel really bad telling you this, but, you’ve become one of my best friends, and I just think you ought to know . . .” began Polly, with a serious and concerned look.

  “What is it?” asked Julia, a pit growing in her stomach.

  “Well, it’s just that, you know how I’m going down to St. Bart’s next month for vacation? We’ve chartered a yacht with Henny’s brother, and anyway, we each get to invite some guests. Well, I of course asked Lell and Will long ago, and there’s one other room, and Hope has to go see her dreadful aunt in Palm Bitch, so I said to Lell, should I invite Julia or Meredith? And Lell said . . .” Polly leaned in, “Meredith.”

  Julia had a sinking feeling. “Oh, whatever, I totally understand. I mean, you all have been friends forever, I totally didn’t expect to be invited—”

  “See you’re just too nice, that’s the problem. I know that you don’t care, but I just think it’s weird.”

  “Not really,” said Julia, uncomfortable with the whole topic. “I mean, I do work for Lell. Maybe she wants a break from office peeps.”

  Polly shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “You don’t?” asked Julia, gulping.

  “I think . . . well, I’m sure you’ve figured Lell out a little now. She likes to control things. And I think she feels like she can’t control you if you’re on the boat with us in the Caribbean.”

  “That seems weird . . .”

  Julia watched as Polly’s perfectly manicured hands circuitously rubbed the belly of her slobbering spaniel. Polly was always dressed so immaculately and obviously spent a fortune to look good and smell good, it seemed so odd that she’d let some dirty little dog shed and drool all over her.

  “No. I think she’s worried about her hubby.”

  Against every fiber in her being, Julia turned bright red. “Why?” she gasped.

  “I don’t know,” said Polly, turning to her closet and pulling out a dress. “You tell me.”

  Before Julia could answer there was a knock on the dressing room door. Polly’s two yippy spaniels jumped off the sofa and started barking furiously.

  “Shush, Valentino. Be quiet, Armani,” reprimanded Polly.

  As Julia bit her cuticle nervously, Polly flung open the door. It was Scott Kelso, the society darlings’ hair and makeup man, who performed his magic for $500 a house call before every black-tie event.

  “Scott! Thank God! First of all, I look beyond puffy, like the biggest alien in the world today! I desperately need every cucumber on the earth’s crust to lie in wait on my eyebags. And my hair! It’s like, disquishious, total greaseball city. But before anything, I know you just did Brooke Lutz so you have to give me all the juice on her retarded child.”

  Scott, a slight man in his early thirties, parked his suitcase on wheels by the door and laughed. “He’s not retarded, Polly.”

  “Well I heard he didn’t get into any nursery school. Not a one. Not even the one in the basement of their church!”

  “He’s wait-listed at Hail Mary. Word is he tried to jam the square block into the round hole in his interview. Now that’s just sad.”

  “Now that’s just embarrassing.”

  “Oh, darling, I saw that relative of Henny’s,” said Scott, running his hands through Polly’s hair.

  “Carl?”

&
nbsp; “No,” said Scott, taking a bobby pin out of his mouth. “That handsome guy who kind of skulks around. The computer guy.”

  “Oh, Oscar,” sighed Polly, disinterested. “Such a bore.”

  “He may be a bore, but he is very charitable. You know my boyfriend Ken? Well, his sister—the fat one, but such a sweetheart—she is a teacher at a public school. I mean, how noble is that? Anyway, she was honored and everything and Ken and I had to go to like this ceremony at the school—I brought Purex and Lysol to scrub down my seat of course—but anyway that hot cousin was there and he had donated like, five hundred computers to the school.”

  “Oscar did?” asked Julia, interrupting.

  Scott turned and looked at Julia as if he had forgotten she was there. “Yes, the head of the school gave a really gushing tribute to him. Apparently he does a lot.”

  “That’s really nice,” said Julia. Wow. Unlike this gang who just goes to the parties, Oscar really gets involved. She was surprised, and yet it made sense.

  “He’s a weirdo,” said Polly, wanting to change the topic. “I try to fix him up and save him, but it’s useless. So, what else is new?”

  Julia wanted to hear more about Oscar, but Polly and Scott had moved on.

  “Hey, Polly,” Scott asked curiously. “What ever happened to Avery Hoffs, you guys seen her lately?”

  “TBD plus tard, chéri.”

  Julia stood up. She wasn’t fluent in French but she knew Polly was telling her brush boy she’d discuss it later. She, if anyone, could take a hint, even if it was in a foreign language. “I have to head out,” Julia said, gathering her jacket.

  “Sorry, Jules, you know Scott, right?”

  “Yes, nice to see you.”

  “You too,” said Scott, smiling.

  “You don’t have to go. Stay! Scott is the eyes and ears of this city. You’ll know everything in twenty minutes. It’s like 1010 WINS but without all that boring crap about the Middle East.”

  “I’d love to but you know I promised Lell I’d stop by before.”

  “Right,” said Polly, giving Julia a meaningful look. “I hope it’s okay for you there, at Lell’s. After what I told you. And I’m sorry about St. Bart’s.”

  “Don’t even sweat it,” said Julia. “I’ll see you later.”

  Even though she had to walk four blocks in the chilly evening air, Julia was thrilled to be outside. She hadn’t wanted to go to Polly’s or even Lell’s for that matter, and watch them get decked out in millions of dollars’ worth of jewels just for an evening at the ballet where everyone would sit in the dark anyway, but they had both been insistent. And at first she had been flattered, especially when they had insisted, ‘Oh, I need your advice on this dress’ and ‘Oh, I want your help picking that necklace.’ But now that she thought about it, they never actually asked her advice. They knew exactly what they were going to wear. They always used these little getting-ready sessions to bring up some little point or topic that stressed Julia out. And she felt like she was a lady-in-waiting to royalty. Pathetic.

  As Julia crossed Sixty-third Street she discovered newfound clarity. Polly and Lell had their little routine down pat. They’d make Julia feel like their best friend, one of the gang, an insider, and then say some sort of offhand remark to diminish her to a quivering idiot. She had to stop falling for it. She had to remain in her own private Idaho, she thought to herself as she turned into the green-canopied limestone building where Lell and Will had moved the week before.

  On her way up in the elevator, Julia vowed to make a conscious effort at self-preservation. Don’t let the turkeys get you down, she self-coached as she pressed Lell’s doorbell. This was all worth it in the end—she was immersed in an amazing world, designing jewelry for the glamissimi people around her and was living the dream. So why did the dream give her a pit in her stomach? She took a deep breath. Just be casual and focus on fun stuff, and totally ignore Will so Lell doesn’t get any wrong ideas.

  A uniformed maid answered the door and let Julia in. Although Lell had been complaining for weeks that the apartment was nowhere near completion, Julia had a suspicion that it wasn’t true, and her first glance told her she’d been right all along. In the interest of time, rather than have one decorator to handle the whole eleven-room project, Lell had hired Lionel Barclay to do the public rooms and Lilly Saint-Pierre to do the sleeping quarters. And Lionel had certainly done his job well. The black-and-white marbled floor in the foyer held only a circular Regency table with a gorgeous floral arrangement perched on top. Hanging from the ceiling high above was a Russian chandelier whose crystal reflections danced along the taupe walls. As Julia followed the maid down the Stark-carpeted hall she peeped in rooms. It was unbelievable. Everything about this place was eye-popping, and Julia was taking mental notes so that she could share with Douglas. Lell had a very distinct taste, one that would suggest someone older. Chintz and bright colors were banished, and instead heavy dark wood antique pieces, thick damask curtains, and dark paneled walls were favored. The art was important, but in lieu of flowery landscapes there were grim-faced portraits and reaping scenes replete with hearty farmers tilling the soil. But lest one think the Bankses were too uptight, she’d thrown in a leopard print ottoman, just to spice it up.

  “You’re here,” said Lell, popping unexpectedly out of her dressing room. She was still in her Lora Piana cashmere robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re early.” Something about her tone made Julia feel on edge.

  “Sorry, should I come back?”

  “No, it’s just, I want to give you a tour myself, but I have to take this call. Why don’t you go into the library and wait for me there. I’ll just be a minute. Sorry, I’m running late.”

  “Are you sure? I can run out and come back later—”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Okay . . .” Julia felt immediately ill at ease. Why the hell was she there?

  “Let me see what you’re wearing,” said Lell. “Cute! So you called Michael Kors. I knew he wouldn’t let you down. Such a sweetie.”

  “He is so nice, and I love this dress. I just feel bad borrowing all the time. I mean, it’s not like I’m a potential customer.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He loves having his stuff on pretty girls.”

  “And thanks for okaying the Pelham’s baubles. They really make the outfit.”

  “You’re out there representing our company. Of course you have to wear our stuff,” said Lell, looking at Julia appraisingly. Her eyes lingered on Julia’s chignon. “That’s very clever how you put the Waterbury brooch in your hair. Was that your idea?”

  “Yes,” said Julia, touching her hair.

  “I’m liking it,” said Lell, nodding.

  “Thanks. Anyway, I know you have to make a phone call, so I won’t keep you.”

  Lell dropped Julia off at the library and disappeared. Julia tried not to wrinkle her dress as she sat in a $210-a-yard upholstered fauteuil, and glanced around the room. It was cozy, with bookshelves lining one wall, and a big dark green sofa and a black lacquer coffee table stacked with books on the history of Pelham’s. Julia leaned closer in to the wall and ran her hand on it. Holy shit, the walls were adorned in red cashmere! That must have cost a fortune. Just as Julia was admiring the series of twelve dog prints (although she was hardly a canine lover), she heard a door slam down the hall. Angry footsteps made their way toward the library. She heard Will’s voice mutter “Bitch” before he turned the corner into the room.

  “Hi,” said Julia, embarrassed.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” said Will, who looked momentarily flummoxed. He walked over to a bar stand in the corner and poured himself a scotch. Julia had never seen him so unsettled. He was usually Mr. Smooth.

  “Sorry, I’m so rude to pour myself a drink before asking you. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Julia felt awkward. She wished she had bagged t
he visit. First Polly tells her there’s weirdness, then Lell makes her feel creepy for being five minutes early, and now there was clearly something going on between Lell and Will that Julia did not want to get into the middle of.

  Will, already clad in his black tie, rubbed his face with his hands. “Let me just chug this and get in a better mood.”

  “No problem.”

  Julia waited while he downed his drink, then refilled an even larger highball and plopped down on the sofa.

  “So, you psyched for whatever shit we’re being dragged to tonight?”

  Julia laughed nervously. “Yeah, I guess. I like the ballet.”

  “I’m so fucking sick of these things. And the ballet is the worst of all.”

  Julia didn’t know how to respond. Will took a swig of his drink, and they sat in pensive silence.

  “I love your apartment. It’s going to be great.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Will gloomily. His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked deeply agitated. Julia had never seen him like this. Usually he was suave and flirty, but tonight he didn’t even seem to notice she was there. And all along she had talked herself into thinking that they had some sort of secret connection. Obviously not.

  “Sorry, Jules, I’m just in a pissy mood.”

  “No problem, really. But hey, do you think it’s better if I meet you guys there?”

  Will looked up and finally looked as if he was noticing Julia for the first time. His eyes brightened.

  “No, not at all. I’m glad you’re here. In fact, come sit here.”

  “Oh well, I’m fine here.”

  “Seriously, please come sit next to me.”

  Julia had no choice but to get up. She sat as far away on the sofa from Will as she possible could.

  “Listen, we’re friends, right?” asked Will, leaning in.