The Gift Bag Chronicles (37 page)

She looks at me as if I’m crazy. “Alex, my dear, who do you think is paying for this party? The diamonds are staying out here. Besides, the cases are locked to the floor. They can’t be moved.”

“Like I said,” Steven says. “Problem solved.”

I glance at the cases — she’s right, they are locked to the floor — and make noises about letting her explain all this to Patrice, and Andrew, and Amanda. Let them fight it out. Besides, it’s not like I don’t have a million other things to deal with between now and the start of the party. Like making sure there are no other little surprises before the guests start arriving.

I turn back to Oscar and Mai. “Can I steal your boyfriend for a second?” I say, giving her a big smile.

“Oh, sure,” she says, turning to Oscar and giving his arm a squeeze. “Bye, honey.”

Bye, honey?
Maybe she’s a dyke after all. Oscar would never be involved with a “Bye, honey” type.

“Thanks,” I say, giving her another big smile, grabbing him by the elbow, and heading out back for the pool deck.

“So, how do you like our party so far?” he says, a grin working at the corners of his mouth. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or Mai or just the whole ridiculous evening, but his cynical, detached mood is starting to get really old.

“Can we get serious for a minute, because we have a big explosion in our immediate future, when Patrice gets here,” I say when I catch sight of the pool deck. “Oh, my God, this looks totally beautiful.” Like the rest of the house, the pool deck has been completely transformed. More white leather couches have been set up on the patio, along with steel-and-glass Eileen Gray tables lit with aluminum and Lucite lamps. Suspended over the pool, a cluster of George Nelson bubble lamps glows. Between all the lights and their reflection off the water, the effect is dazzling.

“How’d you get all these lights to work out here like this?” I say, reaching out to finger one of the lamps.

“Ah, with a lot of tricky wiring,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling it back. “It took me and the electrician several hours to get it all figured out.”

“Well, Patrice is right about one thing, this does look great,” I
say, turning around and catching sight of the glowing Plexiglas towers inside the house. “But she is going to fucking freak about those cases. I can’t believe you just went along with Lucienne and bolted those to the floor after I’d seen the site.”

He looks at me and shakes his head. “Look, if Her Royal Highness can’t be bothered to show up at the walk-through with her own sponsor, then it’s not my problem if there are mixed signals and she’s unhappy.”

“Okay, okay, it’s just that I’ve got Charles all over me about this party,” I say, reaching up to run a hand through my hair and managing to catch both my fingers and my hair in one of the earrings and nearly pull it loose. “Shit. I knew these were going to be a problem.”

“Here, let me,” he says, reaching out to untangle it. We stand there a minute as he works to free the earring. In the damp December air, I start to shiver in my black wool sheath. I realize it’s the same stupid dress I wore to Jeffrey’s wedding.

“God, remember Jeffrey’s wedding?” I say. “It seems like ages ago.”

“It was,” he says, his face so close I feel his breath. “Don’t tell me you miss it?”

“Compared to this? Yeah, don’t you?”

“Well, that depends on —”

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

We turn. Charles in a black suit and a mood to match. “I think you’re both wanted inside,” he says, eyeing us. “There’s a bit of a discussion, as you might imagine, about the sponsor’s display.”

Discussion
doesn’t begin to cover it.
Hysteria
is more like it. Even before Oscar and I reach the house, we can hear Patrice.

“Whot bloody fool put these here?”

I turn to Oscar. “You want to do it or shall I?”

He looks at me. For the first time since our fight, he seems like himself. “You up for it?” he says.

“Sure,” I say, shrugging. “We’re pretty much fucked on this event anyway. Might as well go down swinging.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. We step in through the doorway. “So, what seems to be the problem?” he says, smiling broadly.

Steven is nowhere to be seen, but Andrew, Amanda, Jay, Lucienne, and Patrice are huddled around the cases. At the sound of Oscar’s voice, they all turn, and I nearly burst out laughing at the expressions on their faces. Patrice, in a white satin, floor-length gown pinned with an enormous diamond brooch, looks ready to kill someone; Lucienne looks triumphant; Jay looks as clueless as the vintage white suit he’s wearing; and Andrew, in black Prada, looks like he would rather be anywhere on the planet but here. Only Amanda, in a black taffeta skirt, is as expressionless as the security guards.

“This is
outrageous
,” Patrice says, moving toward us. For a second, I think she might actually hit me. Oscar would surely hit her back. “It looks like a trade show in here, not a party. Who approved these?”

“Well, have you considered the obvious?” Oscar says. “That your sponsor had them installed?”

Lucienne clears her throat. “Patrice, if you just—”

But Patrice cuts her off. “As the client of this event, I expect to be informed of all changes to the original plan —
by the event planner.”

Oscar sighs and shakes his head. “And you would be if you actually showed up when you say you will.”

“That has absolutely nothing to do with —” she starts to say.

“Actually, I approved them,” I say.

Everyone turns to me. “
You
approved them?” Patrice says, staring. “How could you approve them? You’re just the publicist.”

“Alex, you had no authority to do that,” Charles says, stepping to Patrice’s side. In his black Armani suit, he looks like a groom taking his place next to his bride.

“Actually, I do have the authority,” I say, turning to him. “DWP-ED is the event contractor, Oscar is our subcontractor. Which means not only do I have the authority, but since none of you actually made the walk-through, someone needed to make these decisions. So I did.”

Patrice crosses her arms and scowls. “Then you can be in charge of moving them out of here.
Immediately.”

I nod at the cases. “Actually, I think you’re going to have to live with them. They’re bolted to the floor. For security reasons.”

“Then
fucking
unbolt them,” she says, taking a step toward me.

“Actually,” I say, turning to Lucienne, “and I think Lucienne will back me up on this, the insurance coverage is contingent upon them remaining bolted and locked here during the evening.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Lucienne says, stepping forward. “And of course, having the security detail here as well.”

“I don’t care what either of you says. This is my party and I want—” Patrice sputters.

“Leave them. Leave them,” Andrew says, his face flushed a deep red. “Just … leave them.” He gives a halfhearted wave at the cases and then, without glancing at Patrice, nods to Amanda, and the two of them head for the back patio. Oscar moves quickly to join them.

I turn to Patrice. “You might want to see the rest of the layout — now that you’re here.”

She takes a step toward me. “If you think you can embarrass me in front of Andrew like that, think again.”

“Patrice, I don’t think anything other than the fact that we have about three hundred people arriving here in” — I check my watch — “about an hour. I suggest we get through the rest of the night as amicably as possible, unless you want to really ruin your party.”

She glares at me and then, gathering up her gown, turns and sweeps out the front door. Charles looks at her and then at me. Neither of us says a word. I feel like I’m staring at my future. Correction. What was my future. He looks at me a minute longer, and then, shaking his head, he turns and walks out after her.

I stand there feeling my heart race. Funny how you can wind up making decisions without even realizing you’re making them. Like there’s some part of you that already knows the answer, even when the rest of you is still trying to figure out the question.

Lucienne turns to me. “Alex, thank you, but you absolutely didn’t have to do that. I mean, I was prepared —”

“Actually, I did,” I say, not bothering to mention that she could have stepped in anytime and didn’t. “For my own self-respect, I did.”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t have you fired on my account.”

“Actually, I’m counting on it,” I say, turning to her. “So now that I have your deep appreciation, I have a couple of requests about the cases.”

In the end, I get Lucienne to knock down the wattage on the halogen spots from surgical ward level to something resembling lounge lighting. I also get her to agree to cut the security detail in half. So when Steven rolls in asking what he missed when he was out checking the catering stations with his staff, and Allie comes flying in to say that the
Insider
crew and half the paparazzi have arrived and could we get our butts out there, we are pretty squared away.

“Nothing like a party where none of the hosts are speaking to the others,” Steven says when we pull on our headsets and take our meet-and-greet positions at the head of the carpet.

“Let’s just say I’m prepared to kiss this goodbye right now,” I say, reaching for one of the clipboards from Maurine.

“What, you’re leaving?” she says, looking up, startled.

“No, I just meant, however this shakes out, I’m going to be Zen about it.”

“And you’re not even wearing the Third Eye necklace,” Allie says, staring at my earrings. “Although these look pretty calming.”

“You want to wear them?” I say. “I think I’m just going to lose one.”

Steven snorts. “Knowing Lucienne, the insurance probably covers them only if you’re wearing them.”

We stand there, bantering, going over the lists while I try to put Charles out of my mind, until the first of the guests start rolling in. More of Oscar’s fillers, the first of our inside media, Howard Finnegan and
The Reporter’s
party writer, and some local fashion designers and their entourages. It’s like watching the tide come in. Inch by inch, the beach gets covered. I check my watch. 8:15. For the next two hours, we’ll be out here, working the carpet until the party reaches its tipping point somewhere around 10:00, or more likely 11:00, and the exiting begins. A trickle at first, but then faster, until the whole thing will be drained empty somewhere around 2:00 in the morning.

I click on my headset. “You guys ready?”

A chorus of
yeahs
blares in my ear. Except for Allie. “I still want to wear those earrings if you don’t.”

“Talk to me in an hour,” I say. “Okay, so let’s work it this way,” I say, and carve up the duties. I keep Allie and Jill and Maurine with me on the carpet, along with Steven’s three staffers to man the check-ins. I send Marissa in with the WireImage photographer. “Take the first hour with him,” I tell her, “and then we’ll trade off.” Riding herd on your inside photographer, getting the pix you know the host will want while fending off the C-listers, is one of the more hectic parts of event publicity. And it will be even touchier with Andrew, who is notoriously camera shy.

“What do you want to do about Patrice and Lucienne?” Jill says.

I turn and check up the carpet. Neither of them is in sight, but I
know as soon as the traffic picks up, when the first host committee members pull up — Queen Latifah, Chloë Sevigny, and Mischa Barton — and slide an ankle out of their limos, they’ll materialize. Like flies. “They’re heat-seeking missiles,” I say. “They’re on their own.”

And it pretty much goes like that. For the next two hours I play chief traffic cop, moving the talent — and from the looks of things, about two-thirds of our list is here — this way and that, here a photographer, there a moment with the
Insider
crew. There’s a tense moment when Marissa clicks on to tell me Portia de Rossi wants to be photographed with Andrew, and I know Andrew will freak. Being photographed with Uma is one thing, Portia is totally another, even if she’s with Ellen De Generes now. “Do
not
set that photo up,” I say into my headset, stepping out of the carpet traffic for a second. “Steven, help her out. Portia can talk to Andrew, but absolutely no photos.”

I step back onto the carpet. “Hey,” “Hey,” “Great to see you.” We’re moving up the food chain now. Bigger fish. Bigger names — Tracee Ross, a fleet from Fred Segal, Magda Berliner, Jeremy Scott, Kristy Hume, all trailing their own entourage. Guys in vintage shirts and spiky hair, women in old Pucci. The younger socialites, China Chow and Jacqui Getty, the stars of
Nip/Tuck
, Eddie Furlong and a couple of the Johnson heiresses. It’s like that moment in
The Wizard of Oz
when Dorothy steps out and the whole world’s in garish Technicolor. After weeks of staring at black-and-white lists, the actual parade of people is a riot of color, noise.

“How’s it going?” crackles in my headset. Oscar.

“Uh, great,” I say, watching as coltish Mischa Barton and her cheekbones emerge from a limo, the Third Eye necklace glinting on her bony chest. “How’s it look in there?”