“ONE HOUR UNTIL THE NEW YEAR!” Ryan Seacrest yelled as crowds cheered.
How did all this time pass? It was like Allison’s husband had once said of those weary years of parenting:
The days are long but the years are short
. Cole was out on his own, the human glue that kept her fused to Otto for so long. Eden flopped back in her pillows and cried herself to sleep.
She woke up the next morning feeling as if she had been out all night, even though she didn’t even stay up long enough to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. She stared again at the cracks on the ceiling. No. She refused to allow herself to lie there any longer. She couldn’t spend another night like the one she just had. No way. She would simply have to move the hell on.
She forced herself to get out of bed and meandered zombielike to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, then reached for her new miracle moisturizer she’d splurged on at Bloomie’s. The salesgirl had given her some spiel about it being made in a rural Japanese monastery, where the monks all had shriveled and wrinkly and disgusting raisin faces but their hands looked shockingly smooth and infantile. It had sounded better than the whale sperm and sheep’s placenta crap Allison slathered on for $600 a pot. In this new chapter, a new year, Eden would have to start taking care of herself. She closed the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and beheld her clean, lined face in front of her. There she was: one year from forty.
As she slowly rubbed the moisturizer onto her cheeks, she tilted her head, looked at herself, and found her lips beginning to smile. Workmen still hollered, and more than one of Clyde’s friends had made a pass, confessing an enamored heart after a drunken dinner party. She would be fine. She still had it. Right?
She would not waste time. She would take Allison’s friends up on their offer to go on the prowl, even if she was ambivalent.
If you want to get hit, you gotta go out in traffic!
The many fish in the sea were not going to fly through her window; she had to go and hook ’em herself. And deep down in the vast ocean of her mind, Eden scuba’d to the bottom to summon the hope she still could.
16
You know you are getting old when the candles cost more than the cake.
—Bob Hope
I
t was nearly five thirty when Chase got the call.
“Chase, it’s your mother.”
His mother, who never wept, simply had to say his name through a wall of tears, and Chase knew. He had been finishing the piles of work on his Midtown desk, watching the clock out of the corner of his eye, hoping to get back to his grandmother’s bedside. But it was too late.
He staggered to his parents’ apartment on Fifth Avenue, awash with grief. As always when there was a crisis in The Family, cousins, advisers, and old friends gathered in lockdown mode in the penthouse.
Here we all are again
, Chase thought, surveying his uncle Johnson, aunts, the family lawyers, and Dewey Riley, the head of DuPree Family Office, who managed and controlled Brooke’s and her sisters’ lives.
After Chase greeted everyone with a somber, shocked tone of despair, he saw Liesel enter the room, her face downcast.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she said, hugging him. “I know how much Ruthie meant to you.”
He hugged her in silence and looked down at her face. Her pristine preppy beauty remained intact despite her sadness; her shoulder-length blond hair was crisply pulled back in a short ponytail, a Hermès scarf tied around her neck. At twenty-eight, she had the aura of a fortysomething grown-up, in charge and ever pulled together. She embraced Chase and offered her polite and sincere condolences to his mother. Brooke hugged Liesel and grasped her son’s hand as they shared a silent moment acknowledging the loss of Ruthie.
“Well, I hope you all took the bus,” said Grant to some chuck-ling guests. Chase smiled, recalling how his grandmother, who always had a driver, loved taking the bus and would often still take it to remind her of her childhood on the Upper East Side, even though she could be in a quiet and far less crowded chauffeur-driven Denali, or, as she called it, “a living room on wheels.” Chase recalled her saying once that if she wanted to be in her living room she’d stay at home, but that she preferred to be in the outside world, among the people. Brooke always scoffed at this, saying that it was ridiculous for a high-profile political wife to choose public transportation, but only on occasion over the years would someone stop her on the bus. In her old age, though, she rarely ventured out without her nurse. Her few short blocks’ stroll each day made her feel part of society, like a citizen of the world instead of a holed-up hermit.
And now she was gone. Chase was beside himself, and while he also grieved for his mother and aunts, deep down he felt like no one had had the connection with Ruthie that he had. No one else had her irreverent sass, her sailor’s tongue, her desire to be real, unedited, unencumbered by rules. And no one knew him the way his beloved grandmother had. Theirs was a special bond that no one could possibly understand.
Liesel hugged him and offered bland words of comfort. “She led such a good life, sweetie, you were truly the most devoted grandson.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Ninety-two is a ripe old age,” she continued. “It’s really a blessing she didn’t suffer for longer.”
She was right; pain is always relative, and sure, losing someone who is young is much worse and more tragic. Chase knew Ruthie was old, and he had been expecting this, but that didn’t change the fact that he lost someone who was such a huge and guiding force in his life.
“Honey,” Liesel said, patting his head as he lay in bed later that night, fighting in vain to sleep. “She lived a long, fulfilling life! It’s a blessing she didn’t suffer. You know she didn’t want to suffer.” Chase blinked back any emotion, swallowing the growing lump in his throat, and he rolled over and pretended to fall into slumber.
17
A diamond cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.
—Chinese proverb
O
f all people, it was Otto who tried to fix up Eden at his birthday dinner in March at Moto in Brooklyn. She thought it would be the right thing to attend and help him celebrate, as they were still friends, so she went, but she cringed as Mary giggled at Otto’s every word. John Cavett Morley, a famous writer who had come of age with Otto and was in the Clydes’ circle of friends, had asked if he could bring his old pal Rory Sussman, her fix-up, who was not-so-subtly seated next to her.
“So what do you do, Rory?” Eden asked in a bit of a revenge-fueled flirt.
“I’m actually a hotelier. I just opened a boutique hotel in West Hollywood. Starck designed it and Kelly Wearstler decorated it. You should come for a visit.”
“I always thought it was funny how people could be a
hotelier
instead of what they called ’em back home in the sticks,” Eden said.
“Oh yeah,” said Rory, turned on by her not-giving-a-shit-about-him tone. “What do you call them at home?”
“Innkeepers.”
Rory grinned. Most girls threw themselves at him, but this gal was trickier, more confident. He was worldly and grand, a sexy scenester presiding over countless special events at his Hollywood haunt, with multiple slashies (model slash actress slash massage therapist slash whore) roaming his lobby. He’d suffered a freak heart attack after two helpings of foie gras, and it changed his life. Now he lived for the moment, indulging in everything (minus the pâté) and doing two things he never would have dreamed of: He bought a yacht, which he christened the
Triple Bypass
, and now, he hoped, he would screw Eden Clyde.
Naturally, Rory took to Eden instantly, and their flirtation carried on through the meal as Otto looked on, teasingly winking at his ex on occasion. He wasn’t at all jealous (well, maybe a little); he just wanted her to be happy.
But alas, Rory was too slick, too pretty. Eden wasn’t feeling it. She knew when she was being used as a pawn, a collectible asset to check off his list. She wasn’t wrong. Her image was so famous around the world, it would be the holy grail of lays. The old Eden wouldn’t have minded being used as a prop, as long as it got her places. But now she didn’t care.
She didn’t need to be someone else’s arm candy. Not anymore.
After Otto’s party, Eden and Otto continued speaking one or two times a day on top of their painting sessions. Even though part of her was wounded about the roll in the hay with corn-fed farm girl Mary, she no longer held it against him because somewhere deep inside she was grateful. She knew she wanted more and would have probably coasted indefinitely. It had been so long in the making.
Sometimes she had to act casual when she was steaming inside (like when Mary would yap in the background) and other times she felt a warm comfort in Otto’s voice like catching up with an uncle or old teacher. They spoke not just about Cole but about anything and everything. Some nights they’d chat till all hours, even once or twice suggesting that maybe they should just stay together for the companionship and convenience.
“Nothing would be different.” Eden shrugged. “I really think you’re more into Miss Mary than you let on.”
Otto was silent. A mute confirmation of Eden’s suspicions that deafened her on the line.
“I just miss you sometimes,” he said sadly.
“Well, maybe I want to be missed
all
the time,” she said. “There was an era when I couldn’t walk to Gourmet Garage without twenty questions about when I was coming back.”
“So why did you blow off Rory? He seemed nice. Lots of ducats in the bank.”
“I’m not looking, Otto. Actually tonight Allison’s friends Callie and Sara are taking me to Cipriani.”
“Just don’t have too many Bellini,” he teased.
“CHEERS!!” The third round of peach nectar-infused Prosecco clinked together.
“Oh my god, we’re like The First Wives club but without the rings floating at the bottom!” said Sara.
“Yeah, and I was never married,” said Eden.
“Oooooh, eye candy three o’clock,” Sara whispered. A bunch of Wall Streeters in blue button-downs walked in after a long round of squash at the Racquet Club followed by Chinese “Special Massages” at a Third Avenue second-floor jerk joint, where, before the Happy Ending, they tell you to “frip” (as in “flip over”). All the guys were calm as cucumbers (thanks to Li and Ling having taken care of their cucumbers) and ready for some Italian food. These nights were a preppy tradition—Squeal and Veal—“frip” rubdowns and eats.
“Check it out, bro, look at the cans on those broads,” one said between gobbles of veal parm.
“Hells yeah! Holy flesh melons!”
“Talk about happy fun bags,” added another.
“Try happy
meal.
”
Overhearing enough to Sherlock the guys’ convo, Callie beamed. “They’re checking out our racks,” she said proudly, sitting erect.
Eden looked at the guys, then back at her friends. It was like two sets of Big Bad Wolves licking their chops, and she was innocent Red Riding Hood in the middle.
One of the preppies raised a glass to the ladies’ table.
“What is going on?” Eden asked.
“It’s called flirting. Geez, you really do need to get out more. You’ve lost the moves, girlfriend!” Sara teased.
“Mesdames,” the waiter said, approaching their table. “The gentlemen there would like to send you a bottle of wine.”
“Oh, terrific!” cooed Callie, red manicured hand on her heart as she tilted her head in thanks to their table. The waiter poured the wine, and the two bolder of the three women sipped it seductively, lifting their glasses.
“Bottoms up!” Callie said.
“Hopefully mine!” Sara laughed.
“You guys are like predators,” Eden said.
“Why shouldn’t we be?” asked Callie a tad defensively. “Why should guys have all the fun?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it badly. I just . . . guess you’re right. I’ve lost the tools, I suppose.”
“They’re not tools,” Sara explained, delicately touching her décolletage as the guys looked on. “They’re weapons.”
“Would you ever want to get a little lift-a-roo?” Sara asked, surveying Eden’s perky but semi-low-riders.
“I have better tits now than I did in my saggy thirties nursing two babies,” Callie confessed. “Now
these
babies defy gravity!” she said proudly. “Thank you, Dr. Baker.”
“Mine are Hidalgos.” Sara shimmied.
Eden had noticed the 9.81 meters per second pull taking its toll on her hooters, but she couldn’t imagine slicing them open and inserting some foreign body into them. She was such a baby that a paper cut yielded moans and Band-Aids.
After a while, the crowd started to thin and the table adjacent to them became available. The three guys sauntered over.
“Can we join you ladies?” one asked.
“Of course,” Callie said, adjusting the seats to face them.
“So,” said Sara. “What’re your names? Chip? Biff? Chad?”
“I’m Court,” said the cutest one, smile wide.
Eden laughed. Same thing.
“Court, eh? Like this Court is in session?” Callie asked as he nodded. “Is your jury hung?”
Eden spat up the wine she was sipping and knew this was her cue.
“Uh, pardon me, so sorry, I should be going,” she said, abruptly getting up as she fumbled for her clutch.
“No, don’t leave so soon,” one of Court’s cronies begged. Crap, three dudes, two poons left. It was like muff musical chairs. And the hottest was leaving.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m not feeling so hot,” Eden apologized.
“You look hot to me,” the other dude said.
“Oh, uh, thanks. Sorry—Bye, girls—bye, have fun.”
Eden’s legs couldn’t run home faster. Yuck. Sara and Callie were amusing with all their cock talk, but it was so not her. She had been with a grown man of fifty-five; she couldn’t very well prey on preppy boys with the maturity level of a Dora viewer.
She
wanted to be the cute young one; she wanted to feel new and coveted, not be the crusty, grateful one. Shit, this growing old thing sucked.