polka-dotted wonder. She was mimicking the exact words of the woman who sold it to me. I was pretty sure neither of them meant it.
“Thanks. Nice to see all of you.” My eyes were pulled to the behemoth image rising behind Caroline: a floor-to-ceiling oil portrait of our hostess as a teenager. She sat English-style on a white horse that appeared to have sprung loose from a fairy tale. Either the artist painted a sycophantic lie, or Caroline was devastatingly beautiful in her youth. There was more raw sexuality in this painting than in the implied bondage in the hall.
“We’ll get started when our final guest shows up.” There was a tinge of irritation in Caroline’s tone. She waited for me to sit before sitting herself. Her skirt slipped up several inches above her knees, showing off legs that reminded me of a dancer’s, all sinewy muscle.
Holly, an interchangeable blonde with an interchangeable Birkin bag, sprang to life and bowed her head to her phone, in the middle of a frantic text conversation.
“What’s wrong?” Tiffany’s hyper-whisper easily carried.
Holly didn’t bother to whisper. “Alan Jr. just told me he needs to have a potato carved into a Russian dictator by tomorrow morning. I pay $15,000 a year to a private school and my reward is that I’ll be up at midnight cutting out felt clothes for a freaking potato.” The phone grunted twice and her thumbs angrilytapped another response to the forgetful little person on the other end.
“Do Brezhnev,” Lucinda advised. She spoke with a slight lisp. “Raymond did him last year. We got five extra points for the eyebrows and another ten for all the thumbtacks we stuck in him for medals.”
“Brezhnev had a fetish for them, right?” I asked. The women turned and stared at me blankly. “Medals, I mean. Didn’t he award himself the Lenin Peace Prize?” Silence. “Black feathers would make great eyebrows,” I added weakly.
In New York, this was my skill. Carrying a room, using odd bits of information to insinuate myself and make everyone feel a little more comfortable. Here, I shifted in my seat, rebuffed.
More vigorous thumb action from Holly.
What in the hell are we waiting for?
It was boiling in this room, a hell entirely of my own making. I wasn’t here just because of Mike. Part of me was still that nineteen-year-old girl wanting to be accepted.
Will she ever go away? Stop seeking assurance?
“That’s a lovely portrait, Caroline,” I tried. “Very skilled. Who is the artist? Did you sit for it?”
“No one you would know, dear. It’s actually a copy of a photograph taken when I was fifteen. My father sent the photo to an elderly portrait artist in Paris. He is long dead and forgotten, I’m sure. He painted it and shipped it over the ocean. I still remember the day they unbundled it from the truck and hung it in the parlor. My sister was so jealous.”
“And the horse?”
“One of many.” She spoke a little more curtly. The other women in the room tilted our way, like someone had pulled a string through their bodies.
“Are you able to see your sister often these days?”
“My sister is deceased,” she said coldly.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I had heard about your husband and … son, but I didn’t know …”
There was a sound at the door. Caroline’s head whipped toward it.
Misty stood in the open frame, a living, breathing curse word. A rhinestone-studded T-shirt clung tautly to her chest. A white leather miniskirt hugged her butt, stopping one inch from obscenity. Bare white legs descended into short yellow cowboy boots. She could have passed for seventeen, Caroline’s naughty child who spent the night out without calling. It occurred to me that she might have a personality disorder.
“My apologies for being late, Caroline.” She touched her hostess’s cheek briefly with her lips, leaving a light lavender smear. “Todd and I kept getting cut off. A bad overseas connection.” She plopped
“Thanks. Nice to see all of you.” My eyes were pulled to the behemoth image rising behind Caroline: a floor-to-ceiling oil portrait of our hostess as a teenager. She sat English-style on a white horse that appeared to have sprung loose from a fairy tale. Either the artist painted a sycophantic lie, or Caroline was devastatingly beautiful in her youth. There was more raw sexuality in this painting than in the implied bondage in the hall.
“We’ll get started when our final guest shows up.” There was a tinge of irritation in Caroline’s tone. She waited for me to sit before sitting herself. Her skirt slipped up several inches above her knees, showing off legs that reminded me of a dancer’s, all sinewy muscle.
Holly, an interchangeable blonde with an interchangeable Birkin bag, sprang to life and bowed her head to her phone, in the middle of a frantic text conversation.
“What’s wrong?” Tiffany’s hyper-whisper easily carried.
Holly didn’t bother to whisper. “Alan Jr. just told me he needs to have a potato carved into a Russian dictator by tomorrow morning. I pay $15,000 a year to a private school and my reward is that I’ll be up at midnight cutting out felt clothes for a freaking potato.” The phone grunted twice and her thumbs angrilytapped another response to the forgetful little person on the other end.
“Do Brezhnev,” Lucinda advised. She spoke with a slight lisp. “Raymond did him last year. We got five extra points for the eyebrows and another ten for all the thumbtacks we stuck in him for medals.”
“Brezhnev had a fetish for them, right?” I asked. The women turned and stared at me blankly. “Medals, I mean. Didn’t he award himself the Lenin Peace Prize?” Silence. “Black feathers would make great eyebrows,” I added weakly.
In New York, this was my skill. Carrying a room, using odd bits of information to insinuate myself and make everyone feel a little more comfortable. Here, I shifted in my seat, rebuffed.
More vigorous thumb action from Holly.
What in the hell are we waiting for?
It was boiling in this room, a hell entirely of my own making. I wasn’t here just because of Mike. Part of me was still that nineteen-year-old girl wanting to be accepted.
Will she ever go away? Stop seeking assurance?
“That’s a lovely portrait, Caroline,” I tried. “Very skilled. Who is the artist? Did you sit for it?”
“No one you would know, dear. It’s actually a copy of a photograph taken when I was fifteen. My father sent the photo to an elderly portrait artist in Paris. He is long dead and forgotten, I’m sure. He painted it and shipped it over the ocean. I still remember the day they unbundled it from the truck and hung it in the parlor. My sister was so jealous.”
“And the horse?”
“One of many.” She spoke a little more curtly. The other women in the room tilted our way, like someone had pulled a string through their bodies.
“Are you able to see your sister often these days?”
“My sister is deceased,” she said coldly.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I had heard about your husband and … son, but I didn’t know …”
There was a sound at the door. Caroline’s head whipped toward it.
Misty stood in the open frame, a living, breathing curse word. A rhinestone-studded T-shirt clung tautly to her chest. A white leather miniskirt hugged her butt, stopping one inch from obscenity. Bare white legs descended into short yellow cowboy boots. She could have passed for seventeen, Caroline’s naughty child who spent the night out without calling. It occurred to me that she might have a personality disorder.
“My apologies for being late, Caroline.” She touched her hostess’s cheek briefly with her lips, leaving a light lavender smear. “Todd and I kept getting cut off. A bad overseas connection.” She plopped
Similar Books
