“Thank you!” Avery squeaked. “I mean, that sounds lovely,” she corrected, trying to lower the pitch of her voice so she didn’t sound like an over-caffeinated cheerleader.
“What?” Muffy boomed. She leaned in so close to Avery that droplets of spit landed on Avery’s ear. “Whenever I’m at these meetings, I take my hearing aids out. I’d want to murder one of these old biddies if I didn’t!” Muffy laughed raucously.
Avery nodded politely and shuffled behind Muffy across the plush cotton candy–colored carpet. For the millionth time, she imagined Grandmother Avery, wherever she was, smiling down on her. This was the New York City she had always imagined.
Surrounded by septuagenarians?
“Hello!” one of the ladies croaked, holding out a wrinkly hand. “So, this is what Constance looks like now.” She paused, surveying Avery up and down.
“Excuse me?” Avery asked.
“Don’t mind Esther,” Muffy said.
“Here, sit.” Her thick Chanel gold bangles clunked against each other as Avery sat down between Esther and some lady who was practically falling asleep in her plate of scones.
“Thanks,” Avery responded shyly. She neatly smoothed her Constance skirt over her knees and made sure to sit up straight. The waiter came over with a delicate teapot and poured one cup. Avery was suddenly reminded of her disastrous first attempt at popularity, when she’d planned a tea party her first week of school and invited all her Constance classmates, but no one had shown up.
Seems like she targeted the wrong audience.
“Well, we have a lot of work to do,” Muffy addressed the group, clapping her hands together. Avery noticed her discreetly pop something into her left ear as she pretended to smooth a wayward lock of orangish-red hair into place. Her thin, brittle nails were painted a garish red. “To begin with, who knows anything about Camilla Hoover’s dreadful visit to Dr. Brower?”
“Oh, I know.” Esther looked down dolefully as the rest of the ladies followed suit. Avery cast her eyes down too.
“That’s terrible,” Avery murmured in what she hoped was an appropriately somber tone of voice. Camilla must have been diagnosed with some life-threatening illness. Avery shifted uncomfortably as she surveyed the elegant scene around her. A harpist played in the background, and the walls were designed to resemble those of a European cathedral. It was beautiful, but very mature.
Read: boring.
“Bloody terrible,” Esther seconded, screeching into Avery’s ear. “How much Restylane could they have possibly pumped in her? The woman already looked like a gerbil!”
“It’s a step up from her usual look, that’s for sure,” a dour-looking woman with curly black hair said as she drummed her pink nails against the table. Her gnarled hands reminded Avery of the ancient tree in their backyard in Nantucket.
“Well, you’d think someone would have directed her to the proper surgeon. And now she’s pretending nothing has happened.” Muffy shook her head sadly in the universal way girls and women do when they want to sound sympathetic but are really just being bitchy. Avery knew that gesture all too well. She looked up, her eyes darting among Muffy, Esther, and the rest of the innocent-seeming ladies. Were they gossiping? Then she noticed the fragile-looking, completely silver-haired woman across from her, stealthily pouring liquid from an engraved flask into her fragile, rose-painted teacup. And drinking?
See? We’re all the same.
The woman across from her noticed Avery’s piercing gaze. She held the flask up, raising her heavily penciled eyebrow in offering. Avery felt her face flush and shook her head.
“Well, I think we should move on to the business at hand,” Esther began. Avery relaxed. Finally, the real meeting was going to start. She couldn’t wait to hear more about the board’s plans for Constance, and to chime in with her opinions. “Let’s start with attendance.”
“I can do that for you,” one woman said in a raspy smoker’s voice. She sounded like she’d inhaled a whole chimney. “Not here: Ticky Bensimmon-Heart.” Avery played with her gold locket thoughtfully. Ticky Bensimmon-Heart? The name sounded familiar. Avery racked her brain, trying to figure out where she had heard it before. Wasn’t she the editor of Metropolitan magazine? Metropolitan was the coolest New York City–based magazine, combining fashion, Manhattan society gossip, and criticism all in one package. The magazine had never tried to go beyond the city, since Ticky ruled it with an iron fist and reportedly believed that nothing worth covering happened outside Manhattan (with the possible exceptions of Paris and Milan).
“Thinks she’s too good for us, then always swoops in and steals all the photo ops at our benefits.” Muffy sighed sadly and took Avery’s hand in hers. “Well, I’d like to introduce someone very special to everyone. Does this little lady look familiar? Because this is none other than Avery Carlyle, granddaughter of our own Avery.” Murmurs flew up and down the table. “Can you be a doll and introduce yourself? Loudly?” Muffy reminded her.
“Hi, I’m Avery Carlyle. I hope I live up to your expectations and those of my grandmother Avery,” she said shyly.
All the women clapped, the drama of Ticky Bensimmon-Heart’s nonattendance apparently forgotten.
“So, to begin with, let’s discuss the uniform policy at Constance,” Muffy announced. Avery perked up. She loved talking about uniforms. It’d be great if they could lose the seersucker warm weather skirts. It was only a few weeks into the school year, and Avery was already sick of them. She sketched out a simple flare skirt with a military-style jacket in her pink Filofax. Maybe the skirt could be pin-striped? Or some adorable plaid?
“Last month we agreed the color of the skirt should change. Today we need to decide: navy blue or midnight blue?”
Avery frowned. It had taken them a whole month to decide whether the skirt color needed to change? And what was the difference between navy and midnight, anyway?
“I say midnight blue. Objections?” Muffy asked the group, as if she clearly didn’t expect there to be any. The woman next to Avery was now snoring, a small trail of drool trailing down her chin.
“Midnight is awfully sophisticated. These are little girls we’re talking about. We don’t want them looking… loose, like those awful French girls at L’École.” A woman with four Cartier necklaces shook her head sadly. Avery tuned out, pulling apart a thick, stale scone. It was heavier than a hand grenade.
As the ladies continued to argue the merits of navy versus midnight, Avery wondered what Jack, Genevieve, and Sarah Jane were doing. Even though she was thrilled to have this position, she kind of wished she could just be sitting on the steps of the Met, talking about life and surveying the St. Jude’s guys who walked past for boyfriend potential. Avery had never had a real boyfriend. Sure, there were plenty of boys she’d had crushes on, and a few she’d kissed. But that was back in Nantucket, and when the relationship seemed to be going to the next level something had always gone wrong. She couldn’t wait to meet a sophisticated, totally hot Upper East Sider. Now, with Constance Billard’s most popular girls as her best friends, it was destined to happen. The only question was, when?
“Avery, what do you think?” Muffy clamped her hand down on Avery’s forearm, yanking her out of her reverie.
“Midnight,” Avery chirped guiltily. Was it obvious she’d been zoning out?
“What?” Muffy looked confused. “Honey, we asked you if you saw Dinah nip from her flask. She does that sometimes, so we do need to know, or else she falls asleep in the powder room.”
“Oh, I didn’t notice.” Avery blushed furiously as she realized the lady who’d been sitting next to her was no longer there.
“Esther, would you mind going to fetch Dinah? She’s probably in the usual spot,” Muffy said sadly. “Next time, Avery, will you watch out for her?”
Avery nodded, feeling slightly annoyed. So now her job was to look after the old alcoholic lady? This wasn’t what she had signed up for. Talk about false pretenses. The board of overseers was nothin
g more than a group of old society ladies who drank, gossiped, and accomplished next to nothing at their meetings. Discreetly, she tried to check her Rolex, hoping she might have time to meet up with the girls before it got dark.
“Okay, darling.” Muffy seemed to read her mind. “It was a pleasure to have you here. You’re a very valuable member.” One by one each of the women nodded. “You can run off if you’d like. I think we need to continue this meeting in the lounge, over a cordial.” Muffy’s brown eyes twinkled merrily. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to join us.”
“No thank you!” Avery smiled to the women and stood up quickly. She didn’t even want to know what they’d talk about once alcohol was involved.
r would do anything for love… but he won’t do that
Rhys Sterling paused in the red-carpeted front hallway of his town house, adjusting his slate gray Thomas Pink tie. The ornate front room was decorated with heavy oak and walnut furniture taken from various estates around England. Tonight the Sterlings were having a formal dinner, which his prim and proper mother insisted on three times a week. She had met Rhys’s father, Lord Algernon Sterling, during her junior year abroad from Vassar on an Oxford exchange program. As soon as they were married and she’d taken the title of Lady Sterling, she’d reinvented herself as European royalty. With her impeccable manners and penchant for wearing large hats like Queen Elizabeth, everyone politely overlooked the fact that she was actually from Greenwich, Connecticut, and not Greenwich, UK.
Rhys entered the dining room and held out his hand for his father to shake. Algernon wordlessly shook it, then held up a small glass of sherry in a vague toast. Rhys sat down in his seat, feeling lonely. Kelsey always used to come to formal dinners, and something about her infectious enthusiasm made them almost fun. Even Lord Sterling, the tall, silver-haired, bespectacled CEO of a major publishing empire, always said he had a cracking good time with her. He even put his BlackBerry away when Kelsey was talking, a rare feat indeed.
“Darling, you made it home!” Lady Sterling cooed from the other end of the table, as if Rhys had just swum across the Atlantic Ocean and not walked from the Ninety-second Street Y. Rhys shrugged and glanced up at his mom. Her all-white hair was pulled back regally into a chignon. Her hair had been that color even before Rhys was born, but her skin was completely wrinkle-free. She looked like a wig-wearing Nicole Kidman.
“I’m so happy the family is here together. But, of course, it would have been delightful if Kelsey were here as well. She’s always a great addition to our discussions,” Lady Sterling said, peering at Rhys through her half-moon eyeglasses. Rhys shifted uncomfortably. His mom was always enthusiastic, but today she seemed a little giddy. He was suddenly reminded of the time she’d filmed an episode of Christmas with Lady Sterling and accidentally over-proportioned a recipe for a holiday punch, pouring two bottles instead of two cups of gin. Throughout the episode she’d sipped daintily from the punch bowl as she tittered about what a happy holiday it was.
“Yeah, she couldn’t make it,” Rhys mumbled as he smoothed a thick white linen napkin on his lap. Anka, their stern Romanian maid, set his plate down with a clatter.
“I have an announcement,” Lady Sterling trilled as Anka skulked off. “Town & Country wants to do a shoot with me and your father. Apparently they’re doing this great ‘English Abroad and In Love’ spread. Doesn’t that sound enchanting?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Lord Sterling, who was sneaking a look at his BlackBerry under the table.
“Quite right, darling.” He nodded quickly.
Lady Sterling beamed. “Of course, you and Kelsey will be in the shot with us. Even if she isn’t from the UK… or even the Continent,” Lady Sterling noted darkly. Then she brightened. “But she’s not like those typical American girls with all the tattoos and bad manners, either.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Rhys said automatically, pushing his pistachio-encrusted salmon around his plate. He hadn’t told his mom about what had happened with Kelsey. Explaining that she’d dumped him for some other guy would make everybody look bad.
“Are you two having troubles?” Lady Sterling perked up, obviously sensing a topic for her television show.
“It’s… complicated.” Rhys hesitated. Maybe if he won Kelsey back soon enough—he had every intention of doing so; he just hadn’t figured out how—his parents would never need to know they’d been broken up.
His father dropped the spoon he’d been using to chase the peas through his wild mushroom butter. “So you’ve been chucked?”
Rhys looked down miserably at his plate. Great. Now his parents knew he’d been dumped, and he’d have to suffer their humiliating pity through a long, formal dinner.
“Oh, don’t be silly, my boy!” Lord Sterling stated firmly as he slammed his spoon and knife against the table. “The back-and-forth, the chase—it’s all part of the game. How do you think I got your mother?” He smirked.
A vague claim to royalty might have had something to do with it.
“Oh, Algy!” Lady Sterling giggled, her face turning bright red. Rhys looked up sharply, hoping his parents weren’t talking about sex.
“I had to show her how romance worked. I had to put a spell on her.” Lord Sterling smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself, and held up his wineglass for Anka to refill. Rhys shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like thinking of his father as some winsome lothario, wooing his mother with his “spells.”
“He did. And that’s what you’ll have to do with Kelsey,” Lady Sterling declared. She swept over to Rhys and patted his head encouragingly, as if he were one of her five corgis.
Hmm, someone really has a Queen Elizabeth fetish.
“What if you brought her onto Tea with Lady Sterling? I could do a whole show on young love. We’d talk to you, we’d talk to her, we’d really get to the root of it. I think it’d help a lot of your schoolmates to watch that.” Lady Sterling nodded thoughtfully.
Rhys loosened his tie and glanced at his father for help. He was all for getting Kelsey back, but announcing it on a national television show was a terrible idea. His mom already played a clip of him when he was five, asking Kelsey to be his Valentine, on February 14 every year. He’d look like an even bigger loser if he went on the show and admitted they weren’t together anymore. “Um, thanks, but I think I want to do something more low-key,” Rhys mumbled, unable to believe he was getting dating advice from his parents. As if his life weren’t already lame enough.
“Hush, darling. It’ll be grand,” Lady Sterling said. “Algy, give me that.” She gestured to her husband’s BlackBerry and furiously typed in a number. Rhys looked on in horror. She wasn’t calling Kelsey, was she?
Who could say no to Lady Sterling?
“Bob, Lady S here. Listen, I had an idea for the show and needed to discuss. My son and his girlfriend are going through some issues—you know, young love, expectations, all that.” Bob was her flamboyant producer and jumped at the opportunity to do anything over-the-top. “What if we do a piece on courting, then and now? Rhys could court Kelsey, with maybe some sort of 1890 Gilded Age setup, you know?” Rhys watched as Lady Sterling furrowed her brow in consternation, thinking on the fly.
“Dad?” Rhys asked in desperation. His father was watching Lady Sterling in fascination, a smile playing on his lips. Great. So everyone thought his life was a fucking comedy.
All the world is a stage.
“Okay, that sounds terrific.” Lady Sterling nodded crisply, handing back the BlackBerry to her husband.
“Rhys, it’s all settled.” She smiled. “So here’s what Bob and I are thinking: To intro the segment, we’ll have both of you go on a very stylized, Old New York–type outing. I think that’s the best way to really bring the issue of contemporary society into play. What do you think, dear?”
“No,” Rhys practically shouted. “I mean… I think I’d rather do something on my own. Without cameras,” he added sternly.
“Oh.” Lady Sterling looked
disappointed. “But it is such a good idea, don’t you think? I’ll have to find another couple for that. But maybe you and she could just use the space after hours? The views are quite lovely, you know. You could have the band as well. They could play something like, oh, I don’t know, ‘Strangers in the Night.’ I would have been over the moon if your father had wooed me like that. I just think you need to take time to honestly reconnect with each other.” Lady Sterling rubbed her bejeweled hands together as Lord Sterling raised his eyebrows at her.
“Maybe.” Rhys considered. His mother’s television studio, overlooking Columbus Circle, had windows on all sides, with amazing views of the city that would look really cool at night. Then again, the entire set was decorated in mauve and taupe, with weird, half-naked angel sculptures all over the walls. It wasn’t very Kelsey, a girl who’d been born in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and had only moved to the Upper East Side when her sculptor mom married a wealthy financier. Kelsey was elegant, but she was also very downtown. But Central Park… Kelsey liked the park.
In fact, Rhys realized excitedly, the park was really where they’d first fallen in love. Their nannies had been best friends when they were children, and that was always where they’d ended up every day after school. It would be much better to tell Kelsey how he felt with a picnic on the grass than some over-the-top romantic dinner at a stuffy restaurant. That wasn’t Kelsey’s style. But a casual picnic of her favorite foods, at one of her favorite spots in the park… it just might work. It wouldn’t be over-the-top or desperate, but—with luck—it’d show her just how well they fit together and remind her of all the good times they’d spent together over the years.
“May I be excused?” Rhys asked, scraping his chair against the cherry floor before his mother could come up with any other ideas. Anka immediately came by to whisk away his practically untouched plate. His brain was working overtime as he tried to come up with the perfect, whimsical, not-trying-too-hard plan. Lady Sterling nodded, quietly humming and rocking in her chair. Lord Sterling was doing the same. It was like they were dancing, separated only by nine feet of the Louis XIV mahogany antique table.
You Just Can't Get Enough Page 5