by Roman Klee
Carla had never behaved like that with her parents. It was not even a case of them being strict and saying no; it was simply the idea of asking them for things she knew they could easily afford, didn’t cross her mind. Of course, like any child she asked for too many candies, the latest toys and she liked to visit places friends told her were fun.
But when she didn’t get precisely what she wanted, she was never disappointed for long. She accepted her parents knew best.
How times changed.
Nowadays, parents knew nothing. Zero. Nada. Niente.
Her stepdaughter took great pleasure in pointing out all the things her stepmother had promised but never delivered on. As if making a promise in the normal course of daily life, was the same as signing in blood an irrevocable covenant that bound her to some ancient and secret religious order. Clearly, a promise made under those conditions could never, ever be broken, however justified the reason.
There was no getting away from reality—Carla had been tasked with looking after a millennial and all the problems that entailed. At one of her therapy workshops, Carla met a friend who was happy to share the results from her latest consultation with her shrink. She explained the reason why Sophia was now a problem—it was all Carla’s fault.
She was overly doting, trying to protect her child’s self-esteem, guarding it from damage, as if protecting a priceless Fabergé egg. Here was a test. How would she answer the following questions:
Did her daughter play competitive sports at school?
Or did no one keep the score? Was everyone a winner?
Did everyone who turned up get a prize?
Did her daughter have the attention span of a goldfish?
Did she lack motivation? Was she disengaged?
If Carla could say yes to some or all of these questions, then according to the therapist, she really was the problem, not her stepdaughter!
The directness of the message was not exactly what Carla wanted to hear. (In no way did she consider herself as doting and she didn’t think Sophia needed very much protecting.) But maybe there was a grain of truth in the shrink’s analysis.
When she casually mentioned this to Jimmy one day, he dismissed the whole thing as expensive psycho-babble.
Maybe he was right.
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Even if Carla saw no need to keep up with her soccer-mom friends, she certainly felt the pressure to be an ideal mom—caring, attentive, pushing her kids to get good grades, generous with her time, always there, always putting her own needs in last place. But she also had limits and she was fast approaching them.
She recalled how Megan (her daughter from her first marriage) had been perfectly happy to celebrate her sixteenth birthday party at Piccolo Joe’s.
Budd and Jade turned up as a surprise and handed Megan an envelope containing two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars of Brenton Davenport stock certificates. And they all enjoyed Piccolo Joe’s special birthday menu.
It was strange, but in the space of the following three years, the value of the stock more than doubled.
But this was nothing like good enough for Dirk’s little princess. To start things off, she told him they had to have a performer and the name of the group or singer must remain a surprise, until the very last minute before going on stage.
Dirk thought he had struck lucky. He knew how to get the hottest property in show business—Justin Beaver. This would surely be a major coup—his daughter’s friends would talk about it for years to come.
It came as a big let down, when he discovered that Justin was on a world tour and no amount of money was enough to get him to break it off mid-way through. He also learned he had made two huge embarrassing mistakes.
Number one; he had the wrong name. It was Justin Bieber not Beaver (clearly his idea of the catchy invite headline Beaver Fever was not going to work).
Embarrassing mistake number two; Bieber was the same age as his daughter and she was only interested in older guys, not baby-faced little boys, who didn’t need to shave yet.
Although it was easy to feel demoralized by how out of touch he’d become with the hip scene (they didn’t use that word on its own any longer) Dirk never gave up easily.
Okay, he had already made a bunch of sooo not cool dad mistakes, but he was only human after all. Then he remembered, Sophia once said she liked the Killers. Could he get them? Or maybe just Brandon on his own?
Unfortunately not, because they were all on a break. And they didn’t do private teenage parties, they preferred the hedge fund crowd. Or at least that was the story Sophia’s party planner told him. Yes, he knew when he was out of his depth and called in professional help.
Things were much easier for his own fiftieth birthday party. Thanks to a friend in the music business, Dirk enjoyed a private performance by his favorite band, the Rolling Stones. Everyone had a great time reliving the excesses of youth.
Carla instinctively felt uneasy about throwing a kick-ass partee. She knew of a big name singer who was booked for a friend’s wedding anniversary, but only after they had satisfied the diva’s exacting requirements—right down to the size of her dressing room, its temperature and the list of refreshments that had to be supplied.
After her performance, she never spoke to any of the guests and departed in a helicopter—probably to a rehab clinic to recover from her ordeal.
Somehow, Sophia had picked up her own diva habits. Without telling Carla, she made a video with Beyoncé and a troupe of professional dancers. It would be played before her grand entrance. She hired a personal make-up assistant and hairdresser, so she looked immaculate on the big day.
She wanted to turn heads and hear her guests say: Wow she’s sooo hot! She insisted on the latest Marc Jacobs dress—no one at the party was going to outshine her. The planner said they needed a theme and gave them a few suggestions; African safari, Moulin Rouge burlesque and Great Gatsby with a rapper twist.
Dirk was beginning to have second thoughts. But he knew this was not the time. If nothing else, backing out now would prove that his wife was right. Eventually they settled on the Great Gatsby theme, Carla having vetoed the burlesque leather and whip costumes. The safari was out too, because she was not keen on having real lions and tigers roaming around as pets.
If they couldn’t book a super cool pop star in time, then there was always the super cool DJ. And the booking fee was a fraction of the cost of a big name performer.
Next they argued about the location.
Since Sophia was all grown up now, it was sooo not cool to have a party at her parents’ house—even if it was a sixty-acre estate on Long Island.
Dirk agreed, because of problems with too many nosy guests. But Carla said that they could control who came in and out more easily if they held it on the estate. At a public venue there was a good chance of attracting gatecrashers, the kind who knew how to Photoshop IDs.
They argued about the guest list.
Carla thought the friends Sophia’s boyfriend wanted to invite were too old. Mixing sixteen-year-old girls with guys in their late teens could only lead to one result. In Dirk’s opinion, Sophia’s boyfriend was too old for her, period. But that was a subject they would have to leave for another day.
And then the rules on alcohol and drugs.
Carla said no to both. Dirk said yes and no, then maybe—so long as it was just dope and a couple of Es. But no coke or heroin. He didn’t want teenagers shooting up in his back yard, taking photos and then posting them on Facebook.
Carla was more concerned about pictures of drunken, underage teenagers having sex and uploading the results online. It would not exactly burnish the family name. “I guess we can’t stop people posting about the party, but the internet is a honey pot for all the dope smoking, sex maniacs on the planet,” she insisted.
But in the end, Carla lost the argument. Af
ter all, no group of teens was going to turn up for ginger ale and root beer floats.
As Nathan drove through the Wright-Bruening’s Bridgehampton estate, he felt more than just a sense of regret for giving up the Long Island house he once lived in. He also regretted not driving his favorite car.
Carla had asked him to check if it was okay to serve alcohol to sixteen-year-olds at a private party. He confirmed New York State law allowed it—much to her annoyance.
When he entered the family’s ballroom, the party was well under way. Dr. Ludovico was playing a song called No Vaseline, which blared out from a wall of Marshall amps. Nathan couldn’t make any sense of the lyrics, except for the odd curse word.
He looked around and saw everyone was having a good time. The girls wore elegant 1920s styled dresses and cloche hats, while the guys were in oversized jeans and hoodies, Timberlands and gold diamond studded bling.
Nathan made sure the birthday cake (a scaled-down version in the shape of Sophia’s new car) was delivered on time. While the cake was being cut, Carla discreetly handed Nathan an empty packet of condoms. Her expression was enough; she assumed the worst. But Nathan reassured her, saying that at least someone was practicing safe sex.
Sophia and a bunch of friends then found a crate of vintage Cristal champagne. Standing on a balcony, they began spritzing all the guests with expensive fizzy wine. Sophia shouted, “How cool is this? It’s not like I’m paying for anything!”
The party was going too well. And the moment had come to give Sophia her main birthday present—a brand-new Mercedes SLK55 AMG Roadster (complete with an instructor’s brake).
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A massive truck pulled up outside the front of the house, where everyone assembled to see the handing over of the keys. Painted on the truck’s sides were the words: Happy Birthday Sophia! Surprises come in big packages!
So far the party was totally sick and awesome. Everyone was blown away or they just flipped.
“When I stand in the spotlight, I’m gonna feel like a hundred million bucks,” declared Sophia.
“Did you see her in the video? I mean, like dancing with Beyoncé!”
“She’s got a real tight ass!”
“Ssh, shut up!”
“Oh my God! … oh my God!
For Sophia this could not be happening.
The truck doors opened to reveal a gleaming Mercedes, inching down the ramp.
Sophia took one look and knew instantly—it was the wrong color. Everything else was fine, but not the color.
It was Mars Red, straight out of the brochure—and it clashed with her nail varnish.
It was definitely not the custom finish Sophia specified. She wanted Venetian Red metallic. Any dummy knew the difference.
“How could you do this to me? … in front of all my friends,” she screamed. “This is the worst day ever!”
She began tugging her hair and crying uncontrollably.
“I don’t want it … take it back! It totally sucks!”
There was nothing she could do to stop the scene being videoed. The very thought of the publicity, across every social network, would be enough to give her instant pariah status. But before anyone could think of what to say, she ran inside the house and locked herself in her bedroom. Sophia was convinced she had experienced the most humiliating moment of her brief existence.
Carla blamed herself for having agreed to it. What in the world was she thinking? Even if she suspected that Sophia deliberately changed her nail polish at the last minute, in order to manufacture a scene and get her father to make it up to her later, with another even more expensive present.
Then she was shocked for a second time, when Nathan told her that the Merc went from naught to sixty, in four-and-a-half seconds. In no way was it a suitable vehicle for a sixteen-year-old—especially as Sophia had yet to take her first driving lesson.
So Carla had won. The party was the disaster Dirk suspected she wanted all along. Then she could return to her favorite theme; the age-old problem for the elite one-percenters. How much money should they pass on to their children?
Carla was anxious that they would have enough to do anything, but not so much they ended up doing nothing. They still needed an incentive to work or at least to do something worthwhile with their lives.
As far as Dirk was concerned, she could make that her life’s work, while she wasted time trying to do good for hopeless causes. Her sell out, one-hundred thousand dollar a plate lunches for her children’s charity, would multiply, boosting her credibility with the philanthropic sharing and caring set: Hey look at me! I gave the most!
Dirk thought there was only so much anyone could do. In the end, bleeding-heart liberals never did any good, because they didn’t know how to shake off their own guilt.
But he had more important matters to be getting on with. Like forgetting about Sophia’s temper tantrum (she’d be back to normal pretty soon) and concentrating on one of his passions—sailing.
Dirk and Nathan sat sheltering in the library away from the fallout over the car. Dirk started talking about his yacht. He wanted to enter the America’s Cup trials with Miramar, an IACC twenty-five metre. But he failed to be selected by his club.
Still, that was not enough to curb his enthusiasm.
“One of the trials is in Valencia. It’s gonna attract a great crowd.”
“So when’s the actual race,” asked Nathan, demonstrating with his question that he was certainly no regular on the yachting circuit.
Dirk smiled, “It’s held every four years. The winner of the Louis Vuitton Cup will be decided in Venice.”
“So not in America then?”
“That’s right. I know it’s called the America’s Cup—they changed the rules a while back.”
Then Dirk added, as if his intention was to confuse on purpose, “But the final will be in San Francisco.”
Nathan realized he had some catching up to do when it came to understanding the ways of the yachting world.
“We’re taking Miramar out in the bay for some fine tuning. Fancy coming along?”
Nathan couldn’t say, no.
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Nathan expected something more luxurious, but he had made the beginner’s mistake of confusing different types of yachts; there were racing yachts and leisure yachts. One category was utilitarian, with an emphasis on getting the maximum performance and winning races. The other was all about luxury and the visible display of wealth and status.
He often saw clients come into the Trust’s office with detailed plans and artists’ impressions of extravagant yacht interiors, asking trustees to release money for their latest trophy project.
Some may have been sailing yachts, but from memory, Nathan only recalled interiors decorated with acres of dark mahogany and zebrano, sumptuous master cabins with walls lined in Chinese silk, twelve-inch deep mattresses on emperor sized beds, custom-designed hand woven carpets, miles of Carrara polished marble, shagreen covered paneling, galuchat, rare onyx, teak decks and highly polished chrome fittings, with not a smudged fingerprint in sight.
Miramar’s deck fittings were bright and shiny in the morning sun. But below deck it was all about minimizing weight. There was a lot of plain marine ply for bulkheads and carbon-fiber panels inserted for rigidity. The crew slept on narrow bunks, the galley was minimally equipped and the heads were functional, only one had a shower.
Dirk was out in the bay testing Miramar’s new spinnaker, leaving Nathan to keep Carla company in the club house.
“I didn’t expect you to be here … after …”
“It’s alright you can say it, after the disaster to end all disasters. Sophia said her first word to me yesterday … whatever! It’s like she’s relearning how to speak to me.”
Well, thought Nathan, she could have said something really abusi
ve.
“We agreed to disagree. Right now things are peaceful if tense.”
Nathan felt like adding, there are much worse things in life than having a birthday party that sucked, but thought changing the subject would be a better idea.
“I guess I’m fooling myself if I expect an improvement now,” continued Carla looking across to Goat Island.
Nathan sensed an opportunity. Dirk was back out on the water, and one thing was certain they didn’t need Nathan’s crewing skills, because he didn’t know a reef knot from a clove hitch.
“How about we get a coffee? I saw a Starbucks across the street.”
The line was mercifully short. Nathan ordered a Grande Whip Mocha Frappuccino Light Blended Coffee and Carla a Venti Vanilla Bean Frappuccino Blended Creme. Nathan resisted the fudge mini-doughnuts and chocolate brownies. Carla helped herself to both, using the excuse she was getting some for Dirk.
They found a comfortable corner seat, with a view over to the Newport Yacht Club House. Nathan realized he was not likely to get a better chance to talk in private to Carla.
“I wanted to tell you, the first time we met at the Trust’s office. But with everything that happened, I didn’t get the chance.”
Nathan recounted his trip to Thailand and his visit to the Guru Bhagwan Suri. It was an edited version of events, as he didn’t want to go into detail about what went on in the Scatola Nera. Or what Chet told him later that night. He wanted to see Carla’s reaction.
“I never realized you went to those lengths, I mean isn’t it above and beyond the call of duty?”
“Not really, we need to locate Liz. If your father doesn’t turn up alive and well, we have a duty to act in her best interests, and that means …” Nathan didn’t want to push too hard, because he felt awkward speaking about family matters, which in one sense were entirely hypothetical. Only he had a job to do.
“I understand. But the problem is, even we can’t reach Liz. She always chose when and how to communicate with us. You said she was living near Bangkok?”