young-Manhattanite cocktail circuit together, carefree, adulthood barely breached, the social playing field still level back then. Tricia’s message today, like the others, was a breathless recap of what she’d heard about the Barbers’ art theft. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about the painting. The news was spreading without prejudice, like radioactive contamination.
Emily and Nate had arrived late to the Barbers’ apartment two evenings ago. Emily had been wary of showing up too early to the party, given that she and Nate barely knew Anna and Randy Barber—despite the dozens of dinners the four had co-attended, the relentless litany of holiday parties where they had crossed paths, discussed the dangers of mercury in sushi, critiqued the ethics of stealing wireless service. Still, Emily welcomed the invitation. The Barbers always threw a great bash and were generous with their guest list. They certainly had the funds for it.
On the phone, Anna had told Emily that Wednesday’s fete would be a low-key affair, nothing elaborate. Emily saw through that lie as soon as she walked in the Barbers’ door. The party was staffed with a full catering team. Two separate bars were set up, and the Barber children (apparently there were three, though Emily had never seen them) had been stowed at their grandparents’ for the night. Anna was draped entirely in jersey and had gold bangles stacked up her arm, turning her almost robotic in appearance. Emily was underdressed. She was always underdressed, it seemed.
“Our clothes are packed,” she told Anna at the door, hoping to justify her cashmere-tee and jeans combo.
“Don’t we all,” Anna said, and laughed.
“Excuse me?” Emily said. “Don’t we what?” But Anna was gone.
Inside the apartment, everyone asked about Nate and Emily’s Rhode Island plans—yet the minute they brought up the topic, the same people changed the subject, as if Newport might be contagious and spreading. Nate went to the kitchen for more ice, and Emily found herself wedged into a corner discussing Peter Harvey’s recent airstrip acquisition. Jules Denny said she’d developed a midlife fear of flying. (Peter had laughed:
midlife, my ass!
) Tristan Volk said he’d lost his laptop in Heathrow last week, his fifth lost electronic device in four months. Emily noted how merely attending parties like the Barbers’—drinking syrupy cocktails with friends who’d acquired airstrips and second homes—had once made her feel lucky, feel as if anything might be possible in her own life, but it was getting harder and harder to feel wealthy by proximity. At this last party, she heard the voices of her former coworkers in her head, deriding the trust fund/Wall Street crowd and their easy lives. Meanwhile, Tristan wouldn’t stop talking about his lost laptop, about how he might as well buy two at a time, at the rate he was misplacing them. Emily politely nodded, nodded, nodded her head. She wanted to care, she did, but she was stymied by this thought: If she and Nate had these people’s mere problems, if they had Anna and Randy’s spread, their collection of art and artifacts and family silver and a staff to keep it all in place, if Nate and Emily had the cash to buy even one new laptop, if they had any of this they wouldn’t have to leave the city. There would have been no Newport move for all of the Barbers’ guests to avoid talking about.
There was a time when Nate and Emily hadn’t needed these people, hadn’t jumped to accept their every invitation. When Nate and Emily were first dating, just a few months in but alreadyimplicitly exclusive, they had wanted nothing but each other. That first summer they stayed in town on weekends while everyone else fled to the Hamptons (or Rhinebeck or inherited great-camps in the Berkshires). Manhattan felt palpably vacant on those Saturdays and Sundays, and sometimes during the weeks, as well. Restaurants sat empty and doled out prime reservations as if
Emily and Nate had arrived late to the Barbers’ apartment two evenings ago. Emily had been wary of showing up too early to the party, given that she and Nate barely knew Anna and Randy Barber—despite the dozens of dinners the four had co-attended, the relentless litany of holiday parties where they had crossed paths, discussed the dangers of mercury in sushi, critiqued the ethics of stealing wireless service. Still, Emily welcomed the invitation. The Barbers always threw a great bash and were generous with their guest list. They certainly had the funds for it.
On the phone, Anna had told Emily that Wednesday’s fete would be a low-key affair, nothing elaborate. Emily saw through that lie as soon as she walked in the Barbers’ door. The party was staffed with a full catering team. Two separate bars were set up, and the Barber children (apparently there were three, though Emily had never seen them) had been stowed at their grandparents’ for the night. Anna was draped entirely in jersey and had gold bangles stacked up her arm, turning her almost robotic in appearance. Emily was underdressed. She was always underdressed, it seemed.
“Our clothes are packed,” she told Anna at the door, hoping to justify her cashmere-tee and jeans combo.
“Don’t we all,” Anna said, and laughed.
“Excuse me?” Emily said. “Don’t we what?” But Anna was gone.
Inside the apartment, everyone asked about Nate and Emily’s Rhode Island plans—yet the minute they brought up the topic, the same people changed the subject, as if Newport might be contagious and spreading. Nate went to the kitchen for more ice, and Emily found herself wedged into a corner discussing Peter Harvey’s recent airstrip acquisition. Jules Denny said she’d developed a midlife fear of flying. (Peter had laughed:
midlife, my ass!
) Tristan Volk said he’d lost his laptop in Heathrow last week, his fifth lost electronic device in four months. Emily noted how merely attending parties like the Barbers’—drinking syrupy cocktails with friends who’d acquired airstrips and second homes—had once made her feel lucky, feel as if anything might be possible in her own life, but it was getting harder and harder to feel wealthy by proximity. At this last party, she heard the voices of her former coworkers in her head, deriding the trust fund/Wall Street crowd and their easy lives. Meanwhile, Tristan wouldn’t stop talking about his lost laptop, about how he might as well buy two at a time, at the rate he was misplacing them. Emily politely nodded, nodded, nodded her head. She wanted to care, she did, but she was stymied by this thought: If she and Nate had these people’s mere problems, if they had Anna and Randy’s spread, their collection of art and artifacts and family silver and a staff to keep it all in place, if Nate and Emily had the cash to buy even one new laptop, if they had any of this they wouldn’t have to leave the city. There would have been no Newport move for all of the Barbers’ guests to avoid talking about.
There was a time when Nate and Emily hadn’t needed these people, hadn’t jumped to accept their every invitation. When Nate and Emily were first dating, just a few months in but alreadyimplicitly exclusive, they had wanted nothing but each other. That first summer they stayed in town on weekends while everyone else fled to the Hamptons (or Rhinebeck or inherited great-camps in the Berkshires). Manhattan felt palpably vacant on those Saturdays and Sundays, and sometimes during the weeks, as well. Restaurants sat empty and doled out prime reservations as if
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