Social Lives (14 page)

“I can't believe we're going to this party,” Nick said, almost giddy. Almost like a little forty-one-year-old boy at an amusement park. These were the homes, the parties, the world within a world that his family had been excluded from. They'd had a nice house, a three-thousand-square-foot colonial, in a prime part of town. They'd been members of the country club, and his mom had sat on the town council. Nick had felt privileged. But like most of the area, Wilshire had been plowed over by Wall Street money. Houses like his were leveled and replaced with enormous McMansions. And people like his parents became the hangers-on, the guests who didn't have enough sense to know that the party was over.

Nick had always talked about his parents' move to Florida dispassionately. But now that they lived here themselves, Sara could feel what was growing inside him, mostly because a trace of it was now growing inside her as well.
Can we make it? Are we good enough?
It was creepy, this intense awareness of the invisible exclusion that had been resurrected from Nick's past and was now driving them to covet things they didn't need, or even want. A huge house, friendships with people they barely knew. It was as though they were both playing catch-up. She for being too young and he for being too old.

They got to the front of the house, where they were ushered by one of the valets. Upon closer examination, Sara noticed the white fangs, the pointed collar on his black tuxedo jacket, and the streak of blood down the middle of his white shirt. They were in costume, these valets, each and every one of them. Devils and vampires.

The Livingstons were unfashionably late. Contrary to the Wilshire etiquette handbook, which required a delay of at least forty minutes from the
time stated on the invitation, the rules were apparently suspended for this one annual occasion. As they were escorted through the foyer to a room the size of an auditorium, Sara was instantly consumed by the feeling that they had missed something.

A young attractive woman dressed like a turn-of-the-century French tart, down to her fishnet stockings and up to her protruding cleavage, met them at the entrance. “Good evening. My name is Heather, and I will be your party guide this evening. May I offer you a glass of Cristal?”

Sara gave Nick a puzzled look and shrugged.
Party guide?

“Thank you,” Nick responded, accepting the chilled glass of bubbly and listening as Heather the tart explained the myriad events planned for them this evening. He was smooth, as though he always attended parties with guides who were tarts.

“Look at you!” Sara said, poking him playfully in the ribs.

“What?”

“Nothing, honey.” Her voice was sarcastic, but Nick was too preoccupied to notice.

Staring into the room filled with costumed guests—all of whom were dressed as French royalty—Sara hardly felt the glass as it was slipped into her hand, then barely noticed that it was half gone within a split second. Her mind played back the conversation with the assistant handling the party.
French historical figures.
That was what she had said, and Sara remembered it because it was such an odd theme. The word
royalty
had not been mentioned. And now here she was in her clever costume that was not only all wrong, but also unflattering.

Still, she listened as Heather continued with the long list of party goings-on.

“Shall I direct you somewhere in our main ballroom?” Heather asked, but Nick and Sara could barely take it all in. Scattered among the five hundred or so guests were dozens of other tarts and manservants, the latter wearing authentic reproductions of the long coats and breeches from the period. They carried elaborate silver trays of champagne and martinis in real crystal glasses, gourmet appetizers, and oyster shots. Along the sides of the room were gorgeous food stations with mounds of meat, fine imported cheeses, sushi, shrimp—it went on and on. The room itself was exquisite, easily two thousand square feet, lined with white pillars and accented with
elaborate cornicing that covered the entire ceiling. The floor was interlaid wood tile that formed a symmetrical pattern from the center to the corners, and the walls were adorned with magnificent paintings, many of which were originals. It was impossible to remember that they were in a home when this room was most certainly built for parties of this nature, remaining idle for the vast majority of the year, and that somewhere in this same dwelling were bathrooms and bedrooms and a kitchen where the Barlows lived like the rest of them. They were, after all, human.

At the far end, there was dancing to live music from a twenty-piece band. The acoustics were incredible, giving life to the horns and strings that bellowed out baroque chords.

“I'm afraid you missed the vocal performance by the renowned Madame Somande. But you still have the band to enjoy,” Heather said with the same smile that hadn't left her face. Not for a split second.

Sara nodded. “Yes. Then the beer-chugging competition, the best-costume award—guess we can skip that—the carving of the suckling pig, the raffling off of the ten-foot Versailles ice sculpture—where is there an ice sculpture?”

“There,” Nick said, pointing to the back right corner.

“Oh. Yes, very nice. After that are vodka shots, chocolate-covered strawberries, and the haunted house. At midnight, of course.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm.

“This is incredible.” Nick was lost in the extravagance, but Sara was making rough calculations.

“Two-fifty?” she whispered to Nick, betting he had already done the math.

“At least—and that's without the haunted house. Heather?” Nick turned to the tart guide.

“Yes?”

“You mentioned a haunted house.”

“It's outside, through the rear door. The line will form at midnight.”

“And do we just walk through it?”

“Oh, no!” she answered, coming out of her professional persona to display her own amazement at the party she'd been sent to work. “It's a ride, like at an amusement park. I hear they rent it every year. Takes them three days to set it up.”

“Thank you,” Nick said cheerfully.

“Will that be all for now?”

Nick and Sara nodded.

“I'll check back with you in a little while, then!” The woman actually curtsied before dashing off to another beckoning guest.

“Okay. Now I put it at three-fifty. Can you imagine the insurance they must have had to get? Come on—let's go have fun. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Nick looked at her, really looked at her this time, and saw her the way he had always been able to. “What's wrong? Is it the costume?”

“You noticed?”

“Sorry. Is that what has you in such a funk?”

Yes. No.
She didn't really know, though she was grateful he had even asked with all that was distracting him. “I don't want to spoil it for you.”

He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, then caught her eyes. “You're not. Just tell me what's up.”

There he was—thank God—there was her husband. Her confidant. The man who had come to her rescue that night in New York and made her fall in love with him.

“It's just . . .
three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
On one party!”

Nick smiled at her lovingly.

“I don't know. I don't know what it's about. I just feel like . . .” She paused then, not even sure what she was feeling.

“What?”

“Nothing. I see David Halstead over there. The King Something-or-other by the carving station. Why don't you go say hello while I find a bathroom. Maybe I can cover my face with makeup, shove some tissues in my bra, and pass as a tart.”

Nick kissed her again. “I like the sound of that!”

Sara gave him a playful nudge. “I'll find you in a little while.”

As she watched him walk away, she felt a wave of relief. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and she wasn't even going to enjoy herself. At least she could save Nick from the same absurdity.

 

 

 

 

 

T
HEY WERE STANDING TOGETHER
, the three women, as Sara walked through the crowd. She didn't see them, or at least didn't recognize them in their ornate costumes.

“Rosalyn Barlow!” Eva said, scolding her friend. “Was that really necessary?”

Rosalyn smiled, her red lips pulling up against the white powder that covered her face. “What?”

“You know what. You should have made the theme a bit more clear, don't you think?”

They watched the newcomer walk out of the room in her strange getup, dodging in between the partygoers, food stations, and general merriment that filled the enormous space.

“What is she supposed to be anyway?” Jacks was tending to the conversation, though with great difficulty. She was on edge, nervous, and most of all in an acute state of concentration.

“She's actually very sweet. And I thought you wanted her to like you so she'd write a good article?” Eva was now scanning the room for the indiscretions that would inevitably be added to her file cabinet of information.

Again Rosalyn smiled. How could she possibly explain it? There had to
be a certain level of discomfort to keep the woman off balance, to feed the desire to finally get it right. It was the source of the respect she commanded and, more important, the reverence. She looked at her friends who stood beside her. They had been let in completely, as completely as anyone ever was, and now they were at ease in her company. They took things for granted, and that was what she loved most about them. Everyone needed people like that in their lives or they would certainly go mad. But Sara Livingston could not be one of them or she would never be believed. Her tone had to reflect a hint of scrutiny, though in the end, she would write the truth that Rosalyn created—not because she was being loyal to a new friend, but because she was led to it by her own unsuppressable need to please.

Still, she
was
a sweet girl.

“Am I a complete bitch?” Rosalyn asked. “I just thought . . .”

Eva looked now at Rosalyn, her head tilted slightly. “No, Your Majesty. You're just a little obsessed at the moment. Sara will write a nice article. She would never cast Cait in a bad light. Not everyone is out to destroy you.”

Rosalyn listened as she watched her guests. That was exactly how she felt at the moment, as if every person in this room hated her as much as they adored her. And now they had her daughter to use as ammunition. That was what had her head so muddled, so incapable of reining in the paranoia. Sara Livingston was a young girl. What agenda could she possibly have after living among them for under a year? She looked more carefully at the people occupying her home.
Yes
, she thought.
You know who they are.

“You're right. Not everyone . . .”

“Exactly. But at the moment, I happen to be one of them. My wig is fucking killing me. Could you have picked a worse theme this year? French royalty? There must be two hundred Marie Antoinettes in this room. Honestly.” Eva drained her champagne glass, then turned to Jacks. “No offense, Jacks—you're the best one here, of course.”

Jacks smiled as though she had heard every word, but her attention was elsewhere, scouring the party for Ernest Barlow.

“Maybe you can help her out?” Rosalyn suggested, and Eva read her mind. She needed to repent for her little sin.

“I'm on it.”

Eva gave Rosalyn a hug, then left to catch up with Sara.

Feeling a sense of atonement, Rosalyn drank in the divine satisfaction
from the spectacular accomplishment that now surrounded her. The band, the dancing. The flow of the crowd. All of it was working. There was a mood in the room that she hadn't felt for several years—a genuine frenzy of consumption at everything she had dished out. They were, in short, eating it up, and that was the secret ingredient that one could never count on. She had tried in the past to force it, to map out what had worked in other years at her own parties and those of her peers in New York. But there was no map for this kind of magic, and being in its presence, having made the magic herself, was as unexpected this year as it was delightful. And it was just what she needed on the anniversary of her mother's death.

She looked at Jacks, hoping to soak up more of the mood from someone else who would appreciate it, but Jacks was visibly distracted.

“Are you all right?” she asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

“I'm fine,” Jacks answered her, smiling with forced enthusiasm. “Just looking for David.”

“He'll turn up.”

“And the Conrads?”

Rosalyn's face turned hard at the thought of that family. How could they have raised a boy like that, and why hadn't they called to apologize for his behavior with her daughter? “They had the good sense not to show. I heard they went to the Hamptons.”