The Gift Bag Chronicles (36 page)

“Congratulations, you’re the first to arrive,” Oscar says behind me. I whip around. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since Barry’s Scrabble party, and my pulse jumps.

“Here,” he says, handing me a take-out coffee. “We had an extra.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for the cup. At least he’s being civil, if a tad brusque. “So where are we on our punch list?” I say, deciding to play it safe and head right for the business at hand.

He eyes me over his cup, wiping one hand on his T-shirt. “‘Punch list’? That’s such contractor lingo,” he says, smiling at me. Or is he laughing at me?

“You know what I mean,” I say.

“Yeah, I do, and it’s not ‘our’ punch list. It’s mine, and other than the generators that can’t be moved because there is nowhere else to move them, I am up to speed with Her Highness’s requests. Of course, that was twelve hours ago, and I’m sure she has more today.”

“Well, it looks amazing,” I say, gazing around the room. He might be civil, but he’s definitely not his old self. “It actually reminds me of something.”

“Lobby of the Mondrian? Every other party you’ve been to in the past year?”

I turn back, startled. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I’m saying it,” he says, waving dismissively at the sea of white. “It’s
way
too Ian Schrager. But this is what every New Yorker thinks is L.A. Like the beach is just around every corner. I mean, why didn’t they just hold this at the hotel, light some fucking fig candles, and call it a day?”

I’m about to murmur something appropriately sympathetic back when my cell goes. I check the number. Charles. “Hey,” I say, clicking on, “where are you?”

“In the car on the way to the office,” he says, sounding rushed. “I’m meeting Patrice there. We need to massage the list some more. Keep working the phones. Which means we’ll have to do the walk-through later. Say, sixish.”

“Sixish?”
I yelp. “Wow, that’s cutting it really close.” This is insane. Yes, there’s always a final, final walk-through right before an event starts. But given Patrice’s proclivities for last-minute meddling, and the fact that she hasn’t been to the site since Tuesday, a 6:00
P.M.
walk-through for an 8:00 event is a disaster in the making.

“Look, there’s no time to argue,” he says. “Get Oscar to walk you through it now since you’re there and then head back here to help. I’ll see you there.”

We hang up, and I turn to Oscar. “Uh, there seems to be —”

“Let me guess — they’re not coming,” he says, crumpling his empty coffee cup.

“Not until later,” I say, my voice small. “I’m sorry.”

“No skin off my nose,” he says, turning for the door. “I’m here all day anyway.”

He leaves me standing in the living room. My cell goes again.
Steven. “Yes, I’ve heard, I’m on my way back,” I say before he can say anything.

“I’m quitting after Friday,” he says. “I’m
fucking
quitting. She’s in the conference room, hallucinating.
Russell Crowe. Cate Blanchett—”

“Cate’s on our list.”

“Not anymore. Her assistant just called and said she can’t make it.”

“At least she called.”

“I’m telling you, start thinking about my severance package.”

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say, clicking off. So much for the eye of the storm. So much for any of these prima donnas. “Hey,” I call after Oscar. “I might as well see it since I’m here.”

“Yeah,” he yells from somewhere down the hall. “I’ll send one of the guys to walk you through it. I’m going out.”

“How many of these are actually confirmed now?”

“You can see for yourself. Those are all the RSVPs.”

Charles looks at the list and scowls. “I’m with Patrice, this doesn’t look all that deep. I mean, with bona fide A-listers. If Cate canceled this afternoon, who’s to say the others won’t.”

I look up from my desk. It’s almost five. We’ve been at this list, phoning, cajoling, pleading, for hours. In the end, Patrice broke down and offered to send cars for the six key host committee members. “Look,” I say. “It’s going to be what it’s going to be at this point. It’s time to stop chasing the dragon. Besides, I have to go home and change.”

He tosses the list to my desk. “All right, we’ll just have to see how the chips fall.”

“Yes, we will, as we do on every event,” I say, reaching for my
bag. “You want to come with me and leave your stuff at the house while I change?”

“Umm, I’m actually not staying over,” he says, checking his watch. “I’m catching the red-eye back.”

“What? I thought you were spending the weekend here. That’s what we talked about. What I had planned on.”

I can’t believe he’s going back tonight. And that he’s only just telling me now. So much for the party — he’ll have about an hour before he has to leave for the airport — and so much for our weekend together.

“Well, Mom decided to move the family holiday party to this Saturday, and I have to be back for it since I won’t be there for Christmas,” he says, coming over and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t be mad. I’ll be back in a week. In fact, why don’t you come with me tonight?”

“You know I can’t do that,” I say sulkily, since we both know I’ll be working the party to the bitter end. “Can’t you at least go in the morning?”

“Look, I only came out to walk Andrew in. So he feels like the troops have been massed. You’ll be fine. As you say, it will be what it will be at this point.”

I don’t know which is more upsetting — his saying he only came out to walk Andrew in, his acting like the party is already a failure, or his complete disregard for including me in his plans. I know I came to a realization about our relationship while I was on the Cape dealing with Helen, but it’s not like I ever discussed it with him. Given how busy we’ve been and our usual opposite coast living arrangements, I figured Hawaii would be the first chance we’d have to really talk. But clearly I’ve been fooling myself about our relationship for a long time now. It’s obvious he and I have two different definitions of what a relationship is. What intimacy is. I mean, the man I’m supposed to be spending Christmas with — and in Hawaii, no less — is acting like my boss, not my boyfriend.

“All right, fine,” I say, turning for the door. “You want to at least ride with me over to the party?”

“Actually, I’m going with Patrice to get Andrew and Amanda at the hotel,” he says, checking his watch again. “We’re meeting for a quick calm-the-nerves drink. So why don’t we all meet at the house at, say, sixish?”

“Sure,” I say, not even bothering to protest. “See you at six.”

I don’t take it as a good sign that the first person I see when I
pull up to the house — other than the valets gathering at the curb like a flock of birds and the waiters rushing up the drive, jackets and ties thrown over their shoulders — is the Chinese Olympian, in a tiny white satin dress, long black ponytail, and spike heels, picking her way up the red carpet. The media haven’t even arrived — even Jill, Maurine, Allie, and the rest of our staff aren’t here yet — but Oscar’s latest is here. I swear, if she’s a lesbian, I’m reconsidering my sexual orientation.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”

I whip around. Steven cruises up behind me, putting his arm around my waist. “Besides, that whole Susie Kwan look is such a cliché.”

I shake my head. “Nice to know our party planner brought his own date.”

“She’s not his date,” he says, putting his mouth close to my ear. “She’s an early guest. Look at it that way. She’s another pretty face to put on camera. Besides, if you want to worry about something, worry about Patrice bad-mouthing us to Andrew.”

“Thanks, that really cheers me up.”

We head up the carpet, push through the front door into the first crisis of the night. Instead of the usual pre-party chaos, the house looks like a jewelry convention. The shag carpet is still here, along with the white leather sofas and the white sheers fluttering at the windows, and some of Oscar’s staff are rushing around setting out vases of white calla lilies and white votive candles. But there are now a dozen giant Plexiglas display cases lined up around the room—all of them filled with diamonds, necklaces, rings, bracelets, draped over white coral branches — lit by blazing halogen spotlights and guarded by half a dozen security guys in shades and headsets.

“Oh, my God,” I say, turning to Steven. “When did this happen? It looks like a —”

“Trade show?” he says, sounding just as stunned as I am. “Uh, when I was here Tuesday, the cases were jewelry box size and stashed down the hall in one of the other rooms.”

“And that’s where they were this morning,” I say, trying to work out the chronology. Lucienne must have had Oscar change the cases after I’d done my walk-through at noon. With an editorial event, it’s always a tug-of-war between the sponsors and the magazine. Usually the invitation, the step-and-repeat, and the gift bag pretty much take care of any product promotion. But given that Patrice had nixed the gift bag this year, Lucienne must have decided the sponsor needed more prominence at the party itself.

“Oh, God,” I say. “Patrice is going to freak.”

“Well, that’ll teach her to tube a walk-through,” Steven says, gazing around the room, which is lit as brightly as a car dealership.

“Welcome to the Diamond Council showroom.”

We both turn. Oscar in a white dinner jacket and white
T-shirt, and holding an unlit cigar. He looks incredibly sexy. And very, very cynical.

“What the hell happened?” I say, grabbing his arm. “These weren’t here earlier. Who put these in?”

“Why, we did. Who else would have done it?” he says, leaning over and giving me a kiss on my cheek.

Okay,
that’s
interesting. If I had a second to read these tea leaves. Which I don’t. “Okay, just tell me what’s going on, please. Before Patrice and Andrew get here.”

Before he can say anything, Lucienne sweeps up in white pants and a white chiffon shirt as stiff as her spiky blond hair. Diamonds the size of walnuts perch on her ears. “Alex, thank God you’re here. We missed you at the hotel. This is what you’re wearing,” she says, opening a small box and pulling out a pair of diamond solitaires, big as gumballs, dangling at the ends of very fragile-looking white-gold wires.

“Oh, my God, they’re beautiful,” I say, temporarily distracted by the size of the stones. “But I don’t think I should wear them. I mean, with all the running around I have to do tonight, I’ll probably lose one.”

“Shit, I’ll wear them,” Steven says.

“Nonsense, they’re perfectly balanced,” Lucienne says, reaching for my ear with one of the earrings.

“Ooooh, you are so lucky.” I turn, or turn as much as I can with Lucienne gripping my ear. The Chinese Olympian. Sliding her teeny tiny arm through Oscar’s. Oh, perfect.

“Oh, hey,” he says, planting a big kiss on her cheek. “Everyone, this is Mai. Mai, this is everyone.”

We all stand there, awkwardly smiling and nodding, while Lucienne finishes sliding the earrings through my earlobes.

“There,” she says, standing back. “Now you finally look like you’re representing this party the way it should be represented.”

I reach up and gingerly touch the earrings. “These probably cost as much as my car,” I say, trying to feel if there are any backs
on the earrings but finding none. Only the long gold wires running through my ears. And a feeling that I have just been bought off.

“More. I’ve seen your car,” Lucienne says, snapping the box shut and sliding it into her bag.

“Is there nothing in your Santa’s bag for me? Or maybe something in these cases?” Steven says, turning to the Plexiglas towers.

“Yeah, Lucienne, about the display cases —” I start to say.

“Don’t even think about touching these cases,” she says, swatting Steven on the shoulder. “They’re locked, bulletproof, and our insurance doesn’t cover us if they’re opened in the house.”

Oh, great. I hope she’s got better insurance on my earrings. “Yeah, okay, but has Patrice or Andrew seen these?” I say, reaching for her arm and steering her away from Oscar and Mai. No point in alerting little Mai there’s trouble in River City.

“We do display cases every year,” she says, turning to me, a smile plastered to her face. “Everyone knows they’re here.”

Steven shrugs. “There you go. Problem solved.”

I shoot him a look. “Well, do they know they’re this big and out here, in the main party space?” I say, dropping my voice. “When I was at the walk-through today, they were much smaller and down the hall in another room.”

“Those were just temporary until the real cases arrived,” she says, smiling at the security guards and reaching out to brush some invisible dust from one of the cases. “When these finally arrived, Oscar and I decided they needed to be displayed out here.”

“Oscar
and you decided?” I say, turning back, but he’s engrossed, or pretending to be engrossed, in talking to Mai.

“Well, he and I were the only ones here. Who else would decide?”

“Well, Patrice was supposed to be here, and I think she’s going to freak. I think you should be prepared to move them.”