by Lucy Sykes
“That he is. I am an incredibly lucky woman.” D.I.L.F.—that’s what one of the other moms drunkenly said about Alex during a school Christmas party.
Despite its dusty face, the leftover fridge was a treasure trove of beautiful flowers, some with a brown leaf here or a droopy petal there, but mainly still perfectly intact. Imogen sympathized with this lot, whose expiration date came sooner than they expected, before they had a chance to fulfill their destiny walking down the aisle at someone’s wedding.
Imogen buried her face in a bunch of magnolias, their heady vanilla scent sending her back to the very first photo shoot she had done in New Orleans. Molly brought her down there just a few months after she landed in America. Imogen had never seen anything like that city. The smells, the crumbling old mansions in the Garden District, the melting pot of brown, white and black faces, jazz wafting through the trees…it was like living in a movie. There was always a party going on. Oh my god…and the food. She’d eaten beignets from Café Du Monde every morning. The imaginary smell of the sweet dough with the real magnolias made her want to buy a plane ticket. She took them all from the fridge.
Elen was once again engrossed in her electronic device when Imogen emerged, her arms laden down with the leftovers. The girl surveyed the bunch. “I’ll charge you $450 for ’em all, and then give me the remaining $50 and I’ll get them where you need them to go.” Imogen provided her address and texted Tilly to expect a delivery.
—
Eve was sitting on the couch in Imogen’s office.
“What are you wearing tomorrow night?” Imogen still felt jarred every time Eve was so casual with her. She knew it was unfair that she felt this way, and with anyone else she would have felt guilty for still thinking of her as her subordinate once they had been promoted to a position like Eve’s, but something inside her still expected Eve to address her with the respect she gave during their first two years together. Imogen didn’t want her lounging on her couch, her dress creeping high on her thighs, long legs stretched into the middle of the room, her hands behind her head.
“I asked Zac to pull me something from his new collection,” Imogen replied, crossing her own legs as she sat down.
“Can I do that too?”
“It might be too late, but I can give him a call.”
“Is he coming to the party? I just love him.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Eve pouted, pushing her thin lower lip over the even thinner top one.
“Can’t you make him come?”
Imogen laughed. “I can’t make anyone do anything.”
“We can ban him from the site.”
“We won’t ban one of the best women’s designers in the business from our app. How does that benefit us?”
“Is anyone even coming? Jesus, your job is to be fabulous. Are you going to be able to pull this off?” How much longer can I endure this little brat talking to me like this?
“The party will go down as a night to remember. It’s going to be wonderful, Eve. You’re a size two right now, yes? Let me put in a quick call. We’ll get a few options over here for you to try on later this afternoon.”
—
Alex took the kids out to a movie for the night, freeing Imogen to spread her promptly delivered leftover flowers on newspaper she’d laid out around the sitting room. Tilly directed her to look at Pinterest, where the new hipster trend was #DeliFlowers—flower arranging with cheap store-bought stems.
The process of the flower arranging became strangely meditative. Matching color with color and shape with shape and then shape with color energized all of her senses and made Imogen feel creative in a way she hadn’t in months. She clutched a bunch of white magnolias with pale pink peonies, lilies of the valley and chamomile in her right hand, using a pair of nail scissors to snip off a few brown leaves before wrapping a black ribbon firmly around the stems. She was adding odd branches and greens to a tall mason jar when her cell phone rang. Holding a wide white ribbon in place with her teeth, she put Massimo on speakerphone.
“Darling, what are you doing?” he purred.
“Making flower arrangements for the party tomorrow night.”
“You know you can hire people to do that kind of thing, right?”
“Isn’t it more fun to do it this way?” Imogen knew that without telling him Massimo would infer that her getting her hands dirty had something to do with Eve.
“I won’t keep you then. Just wanted to say I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.”
“Oooh, I am so happy you’re going to be able to make it. I know there are a million parties tomorrow night.”
“But no other party will have Imogen Tate.” She laughed at that. “I’ll let you go.”
“Well, thank you for calling, sweetheart. I’m happy to know that at least one person will be coming.”
“Oh, stop it. Priscilla will be wheeling me about, so there will be at least two people there!” Imogen loved him so much. “Oh, and Im. I don’t know if you’ve heard but herbs and weeds are all the rage in flower arranging these days. Just a tip!”
Herbs. What did that mean? What kind of herbs? Weeds?
Imogen wandered into the tiny backyard garden she’d started, then stopped, and started and stopped more than a dozen times. Gardening was something she actually enjoyed, but life consistently got in the way of a real commitment to a green thumb. In the back, by a very small goldfish pond, was Annabel’s small plot of neatly planted vegetables, bordered by her herb garden—rosemary, thyme and mint all madly overgrown. She grabbed a bunch of mint and rosemary. What the hell? she thought, as she added them to each of the arrangements.
An hour later Imogen was faced with ten centerpieces that made her bloom with pride.
“Better than I could have done.” Alex snuck up behind her, wrapped his arm around her middle and kissed her on the shoulder. “Did Song help?”
Imogen shook her head and leaned into her husband. “Song’s in Korea! I met her daughter Elen.”
“Elen was about twelve years old last time I saw her,” her husband said, scratching his head. Imogen laughed.
“It’s been too long since you’ve gotten me flowers then. You must’ve seen her about six years ago, because she’s now a very beautiful young woman and I have no doubt that you would’ve noticed her.”
“I don’t notice any beautiful women except my wife.” He nuzzled her neck, the daylong growth of his beard scratching her in a way both pleasurable and familiar.
“Where are the kids?”
“Upstairs. I fed them too much popcorn. They’re in a food coma, both ready to hit the sack.” Alex yawned. “So am I. Joining me?”
“In a little bit. I want to finish up here, if that’s all right?”
“Of course.” Alex surveyed the flowers again. “That Elen is almost as talented as her mother, the woman who helped me win my wife.”
Imogen didn’t know why, but she wanted to keep her newfound talent to herself for the time being, make it something that only she knew she was any good at.
“She’s a talented girl! I’ll be up in just a few minutes. Start reading to the kids and I’ll come along soon to finish up.”
—
Oh, how she missed the days of a glam squad coming into the office to get all the girls—all the editors and advertising reps—ready for a big event together. Hairstylists, manicurists and makeup artists used to descend in a pack on Robert Mannering Corp., turning the office into a giant spa for an entire day before a party.
Now Imogen just asked Allison, her favorite stylist from the salon, to come over and give her a blowout at the house.
“Who’s coming tonight?” Annabel perched on the ottoman at the foot of Imogen’s bed, her orange backpack at her feet, ready for a night at Suki Abraham’s house down the street.
“Whoever was free,” Imogen said distractedly, trying not to let the guest list make her too nervous. Ashley had a lengthy list
of RSVPs, which flooded in just minutes after the Paperless Post had gone out, all typed out by diligent assistants, but Imogen knew better than anyone that everyone simply RSVP’d for everything during Fashion Week and then scattered where the wind and their Town Cars took them. She never wanted to be early for her own party, but this time she couldn’t be too late either.
Imogen had to ignore a barrage of texts from Eve.
>>>>What r u wearing?<<<<
>>>>How shld I do my hair?<<<<
>>>>Whoze coming??<<<<
>>>>Y aren’t U ANSWERING MEEEE!!!!! <<<<
She kissed her daughter good-bye and walked slowly down the stairs, drinking in the room. Her flower arrangements looked pretty and fresh in mason jars.
The front door was open and Ashley was greeting guests on the front stoop. Early evening sunlight streamed in to dapple the attractive crowd, most of them dressed head to toe in black or white, with splashes of vibrant color on a shoe here or jewelry there.
Imogen was lightly brushing her lips across Ashley’s cheek to say hello when she heard Eve’s voice pipe up behind her, forcing the hairs on her neck to stand at attention. They would have saluted Eve if they’d been able.
“I thought I told you not to spend money on flowers,” Eve barked. Ashley, appearing uncomfortable for Imogen, turned her attention back to checking guests off on her miniature iPad.
“I didn’t. We got them free.” Bald-faced lies were unfortunately the best policy with Eve, who considered the free flowers with a new eye.
“Oh. Well then, they’re nice. I like them. When is everyone getting here?” Eve said, as though the already crowded room were completely empty.
The clatter of glassware and idle chatter from clusters of well-dressed guests already filled the intimate space. Trays of hors d’oeuvres were passed: thinly shaved tomatoes topping a dime-sized dollop of milky burrata on Parmesan squares, unnervingly large shrimp next to a silver bowl of cocktail sauce and salmon carpaccio with shaved truffles in bowls just twice the depth of a thimble.
Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen could see Donna Karan, wearing a wonderful black jumpsuit paired with an orange cashmere throw, engaged in a heated discussion with an Oscar-winning actor and his model wife. At the other end of the room Adrienne Velasquez of Project Fashion chatted up an attractive bartender with a slight Mohawk. The model Cara Delevingne held hands with her latest girlfriend in a hushed chat in the corner. Salman Rushdie raised his hand halfway into the air in a finger-wiggling wave to Lily Aldridge and Stacey Bendet of Alice & Olivia. Imogen watched as the actor Alan Cumming, fresh off a new stint on Broadway and wearing a cropped tweed suit in a way few men could—or should, for that matter—crept up behind Alexandra Richards to give her a wet kiss on the cheek. Anjelica Huston and her handsome nephew Jack chatted in a corner.
Bridgett bounced across the room, a ball of excitement, her long legs ensconced in silk harem pants that flapped like wide Technicolor wings.
“I just came up with an idea for my very own app.” She lowered her already sultry voice conspiratorially as she spoke to Imogen.
“Tell me all about it, darling. I am sure it’s brilliant.” Imogen reached over to pluck a small piece of lint off of Bridgett’s black cashmere shell.
“Well, I want to create something that can live on their phones that will help my clients choose their outfits every morning. I want them to be able to input everything in their closet and then the app will tell them how to put it together each day to keep their look fresh.”
“Aren’t you worried it will make what you do irrelevant, darling?” Imogen asked, still convinced that most technology served to make someone somewhere irrelevant.
Bridgett thought on that for a second. “No, I actually don’t. They still need me to tell them what to wear and I think it could help me get new clients, ones who don’t have the time or the money to see me as often, who live in different parts of the country.”
Imogen considered this. It was a fair point. Bridgett putting herself on people’s phones would increase her reach from Beverly Hills to Capitol Hill.
“I love everything about it,” Imogen said. “I think you should absolutely go for it.” And Imogen knew the perfect person for Bridgett to speak with. His signature topknot sprung jovially up into the air as he walked through the door, completely at ease in this room of fashion royalty. He wore a high-waisted Thom Browne three-piece suit in burnt sienna atop a simple white button-down paired with the same flawless loafers he had worn when Imogen first met him at DISRUPTTECH! She grabbed him by the elbow as he strolled past.
“Birdie, I want you to meet Rashid. Rashid is the founder of Blast! I think the two of you have a lot that you could talk about.” Rashid kissed her hand as Imogen left the two of them to talk apps.
Paloma Betts, a top buyer for Barneys with feathery ash-blond hair that framed her oval face, tottered over to Imogen in an intricately beaded black crepe minidress.
“Is that DJ who I think it is?” she asked. “She’s so hot right now.”
The DJ, Chelsea (she went by one name these days), a socialite turned DJ in a camouflage snowsuit, had set up at a small table in the corner underneath an oil painting of Imogen’s great-uncle Alfred.
Imogen smiled coyly. “It is.” She failed to mention that Chelsea had been Annabel’s babysitter just five years ago and was spinning at the party for free.
“You’re so hip.” Paloma swayed her head to a remix of Pitbull dipping into a Lionel Richie throwback.
I used to be, Imogen thought. “Don’t go that far! I just pay attention.” Imogen shrugged. “I’ll give you all her information.” Paloma caught sight of Adrienne’s Mohawked bartender and sidled over to order her glass of rosé.
Scattered on tables were gift cards for Glossy.com, each one promising $50 to BUY IT NOW! Next to them were the despised black bracelets.
Imogen felt a warm hand on the small of her exposed spine. Her dress had a high, nun-like collar in the front, with a back that dipped dangerously close to her derriere. Thinking it was Alex, she turned seductively, only to come face-to-face, for the first time in practically a decade, with Andrew Maxwell.
“Immy!” No one called her Immy anymore. The years had been kind to Andrew in the way they always are to wealthy men. A smattering of gray was just beginning to show at his temples, but it suited him. His hair was now sculpted into a perfectly political helmet. His suit was impeccably tailored and the collar of his signature pink shirt immaculately ironed. He surveyed the room.
“Different from that tiny place we used to shack up in, right?” Did he have to say that so loudly?
“Andrew, it’s wonderful to see you. Thanks for coming.”
“How could I ever pass up an opportunity to see the inimitable Imogen Tate in her element?” His teeth were no longer riddled with tobacco stains. Now they shone too brightly, reflecting light of their own back at Imogen. He gave his characteristically easy smile, one that brought wrinkles around his eyes that would have aged a woman but made a man appear rugged.
A sixth sense told her she was being watched.
Sure enough, Eve swooped past, hurling herself into Andrew’s arms and planting a boisterous kiss full on his lips. Eve hadn’t chosen any of the dresses Imogen had pulled for her. Instead she opted for her standby, another bandage minidress in black and white, her breasts swelling seductively out of the immodestly plunging neckline. How many of these bandage dresses did Eve have? Andrew planted his eyes squarely on her breasts and didn’t look away.
“You didn’t like any of the dresses we pulled for you, Eve?”
“Too old. Stuffy. Perfect for you. Not for me.”
“Well, you look beautiful,” Imogen said politely.
“Right?” Eve replied, pivoting on her heel to stroll into the corner of the room, where she huddled with three of her bloggers. Imogen rolled her eyes and began to circulate.
Imogen congratulated Vera Wang on a s
how very well done that morning before being bounced from guest to guest—the famous ballerina whose name began with an O but she could never remember it, the art critic with breath that always smelled like kitty litter, the creative director for Prada. She stopped short in the rear of the room, surprised to see teenage blogger Orly there, sitting quietly on one of Imogen’s mid-century white armchairs while she meticulously spread foie gras on a toast point, making sure the creamy pâté reached to the very edge. She added a dollop of grainy Dijon mustard before nibbling at the end. The girl’s appearance struck Imogen as fairylike, with her light blue eyes and matching hair, her slightly too large head floating above a slender frame.
She was so close to Annabel’s age that Imogen wanted to put her hand on her head and ask the girl if she was having a good time and get her a slice of cake, but before she could approach her, Orly looked up and patted the chair next to her in a way that was wise beyond her years.
“I never know what to do at these things.” Her small hands fluttered like wings around her face as she talked.
“I think I am failing you,” Imogen replied, making sure to keep her tone as adult as possible so that she didn’t come across as condescending. “It’s my job as a host to walk you around and introduce you to everyone. No one really knows what to do at these parties. You’re not alone.”
The girl was so unlike Eve, completely guileless and straightforward. She didn’t bother to kiss Imogen’s ass because no one had taught her how.
“Walk with me a little.” Imogen offered her hand to Orly.
At the heart of the room, Massimo held court with the beautiful it girls. He loved interesting-looking people of both genders. Priscilla perched perfectly on the handle of his chair behind him. Imogen settled herself delicately onto his lap, making sure to shift the majority of her weight into her own legs, but knowing that he loved the attention of having a beautiful woman drape herself across him like this. She kissed him on the lips.