“Some people feel, maybe, put off by it, but that’s just because they’re not part of it,” Jennifer said. “It kind of represents being accepted into society. My dress—it’s so funny, everyone thinks it’s a wedding dress, and I’m, like, I’m seventeen—is just classic. Sweetheart neckline with a full skirt. Mom, can you touch up my lipstick, please?”
“It’s in my purse in the other room. I’ll be right back,” said the mother, hurrying past Evelyn.
“I’ll take a break, too,” the photographer said, and headed out another door.
Jennifer pinched her cheeks.
“Mom, can you touch up my lipstick, please?” Evelyn heard in a mocking voice—Phoebe—so expertly calibrated that even Evelyn could hardly hear it, though Phoebe was just inches away from her. Phoebe picked up a fake pearl necklace from a pile of accessories that sat next to the photographer and threw it at Wythe, who caught it with one hand. “Wythe! Style me,” Phoebe commanded, and Wythe looped the necklace three times around Phoebe’s neck.
The other debs crowded in behind them, wanting to figure out the rules of engagement.
“Well? Jennifer? How’s your photograph going?” Phoebe said.
“Good,” said Jennifer, lifting her nose.
“I don’t know. I think you need something. A beehive. With some glasses, maybe,” Wythe said.
“A beehive,” Phoebe mused. “Very fifties housewife. I think it would look great, Jenny–Jen–Jenno.”
“My mom did my hair,” Jennifer said.
“Oh, your mom did your hair? I didn’t know. Wythe, her mom did her hair.”
“Well, then,” Wythe said. “Even more reason to change it.”
Jennifer, still in the chair, smiled hesitantly and tugged at one of her ringlets. She glanced at Evelyn, and Evelyn could hear the breathing of the other debs around her, watching to see how far this would go. Evelyn was supposed to be the adult here. She should step in.
“Evelyn! Will you tell Jennifer she needs a hair makeover?” Phoebe said.
As Evelyn looked at the girl with her overdone curls, her overdone Jersey mother waiting somewhere, she felt a tremolo of power rise and vibrate, and then her hand shot out and grabbed a comb from the accessories table. “I think a beehive would look great,” Evelyn said, surprised by how tart and good the words felt on her tongue.
Wythe shouted “Hooray!” as Phoebe chanted “Go, Jennifer! Beehive! Beehive!”
Evelyn took a step closer to Jennifer, wielding the comb like a knife. She wanted to not just comb out the curls but to yank the comb through the girl’s hair, to see how it felt to be the high-school queen that everyone feared.
“Beehive! Beehive!” Wythe chanted as Phoebe tossed faux pearls into the air in ecstasy.
Evelyn was just reaching out to ensnare Jennifer’s limp, sad curls when the Lausanne woman, passing by the room, caught part of the exchange. “What’s happening, girls? Jennifer, you should not fuss with your hair. And put all those necklaces back. Really, can’t you girls follow simple instructions? Did I not tell you to listen to Evelyn?” She gave Evelyn a sympathetic smile.
Jennifer shook her head mutely and dashed out of the room, her curls shaking. Evelyn watched her go and now the comb in her hand felt ridiculous—what was she doing, harassing a teenager? Then she felt a squeeze on her arm from Phoebe, and looked back to see the other debs staring at her with awe.
“Love Evelyn,” Phoebe said to Camilla, who had just cut a path through the crowd of debs to join them. “But I don’t even want to do this ball. My dress is kind of fan-fucking-tastic, though. I got it at a vintage shop for twenty dollars. I think it was originally a slip.”
“Jennifer’s,” Evelyn said, mimicking the girl’s mincing voice, “has a sweetheart neckline with a full skirt.” Phoebe and Wythe laughed, and the debs in the background did, too. Even Camilla smirked.
“Ugh. I’m going to ask the band to play ‘Hot Legs’ when I do my curtsy,” Phoebe said.
Camilla let out a lengthy sigh. “Can you and Wythe stop this alt-whatever-it-is you’re doing? Please? Just get normal dresses and invite normal escorts and we can all get through this in one piece. Evelyn?”
“Camilla’s right,” Evelyn said. “At my deb ball there was a girl in Doc Martens, and it just made her look nuts.”
The younger girls hooted. “Doc Martens! How old are you?”
“Doc Martens. Oh, my God, the grunge era just kept going,” said Camilla.
“Her mother almost fainted when she lifted her dress to curtsy.” The strange thing was, Evelyn could picture this almost as if she did remember it.
“Where did you deb?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, in Maryland, where I’m from. The Bachelors’ Cotillion.”
“Bachelors’,” Camilla repeated. “I can’t believe that about the Doc Martens.”
“Lucky it wasn’t flannel.”
Wythe leaned in, examining Evelyn’s gray pearl-drop earrings; Evelyn had put the molarlike pearl studs in a box a month earlier and hadn’t brought them out since. “Those are fierce,” Wythe said, snapping her fingers in a Z formation. “Phoebs, do you have a cig?”
Phoebe and Wythe were barreling toward the door, though the tea was still in full swing, when Souse finally resurfaced. “Oh, Mother, thanks for giving me the opportunity to become a debutante and fulfill your every wish,” Evelyn heard Phoebe saying to Souse in a singsong tone.
“Oh, Phoebe,” Souse said back. “Do you have money for a cab?”
Phoebe, now needy, smiled sheepishly. Souse delivered $20, then, after Phoebe raised her eyebrows, another $20 into her hand.
As the girls left, Souse turned to Evelyn and motioned a waiter for two champagnes.
“Hello, again. I’m exhausted. Come, sit. My two minutes with my daughter, isn’t it modern? Phoebe’s upset her father, Fritz, is not coming. What am I supposed to do, dance with two men at once? Ari gave quite a bit of money to the organization, so he staked his claim to this. Fritz will do the Assembly. We must take turns. Now, sit, Evelyn.” Souse plucked a crustless sandwich from a tray. “One of the most civilized things I do is have teatime daily, so this is my indulgence for this afternoon. How badly can a day go when you have a finger sandwich in the middle of it?”
“Our housekeeper always made really good cucumber ones, with just the littlest bit of butter,” Evelyn said. They hadn’t hired Valeriya until a few years ago, and the only food Evelyn had seen her produce was the hard rolls she brought from home and occasionally forgot in the Beegans’ cupboard.
The demonstration of caste solidarity seemed to work, though, as Souse said, “So I understand you’re from Baltimore.”
“My mother’s family is, yes.”
“Have they been there a long time?”
This was a line of questioning that would have unnerved Evelyn just a few months earlier. Evelyn, however, had been reading, and she had been practicing. The mistruths skipped off her tongue. She told of the shipping business, the side-by-side Tudors for her maiden great-aunts in Roland Park, the tales she grew up with of Baltimore before automobiles, the family connection to Johns Hopkins, the summer place on the Eastern Shore that they decided to make their full-time residence—everything, she thought, that Souse would need to pinpoint her as old money.
“How lovely. I barely know Baltimore, but it’s so nice that it has such tradition,” Souse said when she was finished. “And Camilla tells me you have a boyfriend.”
“I do, yes. Scot.”
“Who is he?”
“Ah, he works in finance. Morgan Stanley’s media group. He works with David Greenbaum.”
“Finance. You girls these days are such traditionalists. My generation, we were all rebels, and the girls these days, well, it’s the Eisenhower fifties, isn’t it? Then there’s Ari. Real estate. Truly. I met Ari on a rainy day on Madison, isn’t that terrible? At a bar, if you can believe that. He got drunk quite fast, because, as it turns out, he only has one kidney. He’s really ver
y good to the girls.”
“I’d imagine. I can tell Camilla has a lot of respect for him.”
“Can you? I wouldn’t know it. Tell me, Evelyn, because Camilla certainly won’t, is she bringing anyone to the ball? A date, I mean?”
“She was thinking of bringing Nick Geary, just as a friend, though. I think Camilla’s happy being on her own right now, to be honest. It’s not for lack of interest on the men’s part.”
“Oh, I know, I know. Shouldn’t she be dating, though? I don’t know. I don’t understand how the young people do it these days. Everyone’s so busy. Like Jaime de Cardenas, do you know him?”
Evelyn sat up. “We’ve met once or twice. He seems like a terrific fellow.”
“He is. And a marvelous shot.”
“Game?”
“Ducks, primarily. It’s really something. He comes up to Sachem when he can, and it’s fun for everyone. Though it’s been ages. Young people these days. Everyone’s overtaxed. I meant to tell you, Camilla’s so glad to have your father as her guest at the Luminaries dinner.”
The Luminaries dinner, with its $25,000 price tag, which Evelyn hoped Camilla had forgotten about. She was about to equivocate when she realized that if Souse was glad to have her father attend the dinner, Camilla must not have told Souse about the grand jury investigation, and that really didn’t matter, not as long as everyone believed in Evelyn’s august lineage.
“My father is just thrilled to be going,” Evelyn said.
“His gift is quite generous. Truly. Oh, dear, Push is flapping her wings at me. I still haven’t found silent auction items and must go atone. I’m glad we got to talk. Why hadn’t we met before?”
The implied meaning that Evelyn was in, or near to, Souse’s circle made a tingle run up Evelyn’s neck, even if she was getting into a deeper hole with her stories. “Oh, I’d been busy with work and just got to know Camilla better. This event has been delightful. It’s always a hoot to revisit deb days.”
“It is, you’re right. Keeps us young. Or keeps me young. You, you don’t have to worry about that, do you?” Souse flitted off, and Evelyn, who did feel young in this crowd, wandered over to the platters of food, quiche, tabbouleh, and raspberry-lemon tartlets. Evelyn filled a small plate and tried to subtly suck out the tabbouleh’s parsley from her teeth as she listened to the women talk. “Ani is in early to Princeton, but Michael only to Oberlin…” “I have known several people who have gone to Oberlin, and they came out just fine…” “We bought near Stockbridge…” “Chicken is all people seem to eat or serve anymore…” “The touring choir auditions…” “Americans ask always about Marie Antoinette and think it’s interesting that we beheaded a queen.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Selection of Jamón
Evelyn watched her father through the glass of Bar Jamón. He was ringing with energy, pointing at one ham hock after another and then throwing his arms up into the air as he laughed at whatever he was saying. With no indictment yet, he and Leiberg Channing thought it would be best for everyone to proceed as normal. He was in New York for a settlement meeting and it must have gone well: his khakis were practically ballooning with pride.
He was standing at the marble bar, and the counter guy was waiting for him to order, but Dale was too busy delivering his monologue about the ham hanging overhead. Evelyn had selected their meeting spot, Bar Jamón, from Zagat, which said it was “Iberian chic” with an “insider’s vibe”; it was close to where his meeting had been. She hoped it would be quiet, as her father got distracted so easily, and she needed to ask him for money. The last time she’d attempted this, in Bibville, news of the indictment had knocked her off track.
“Dad,” she said upon entering.
Dale turned and grinned. “I’m just looking at all this food. Now, we have ham where I’m from, but it’s not ham that looks quite like this!” He examined the droopy-eyed counter guy, and Evelyn could tell he was looking for the jury-box response, the twitch of a smile and the slight creasing around the eye that indicated Dale had him, but it wasn’t there yet. “So. What about ham, son?” Dale chuckled.
The young man lifted his heavy eyes and mumbled, “Jamón serrano, jamón ibérico de bellota, jamón ibérico de cebo,” pointing at the hocks of cured pig.
“No good old Virginia ham?” Dale asked.
The man looked devastated. “No.”
Dale laughed again, so heartily it practically bounced off the walls. “Well, Evie, your tastes certainly are getting sophisticated. Now, my good man, can I just have a plain black coffee?”
The counter guy set about making an Americano with grief-stricken movements as Evelyn and Dale sat down at one of the high tables, a candle flickering between them though it was light outside.
“Well, New York is not the town for me, but in the fall it’s not too bad,” Dale said.
“Autumn in New York,” Evelyn half sang.
“What’s that?” He signaled the man to bring over the coffee.
“It’s counter service, I think,” Evelyn said.
“Right over here,” Dale said. To Evelyn’s frustration, the guy brought over the coffee to their table. “Nothing a big tip can’t fix,” Dale said loudly.
Evelyn made a face at the tabletop. She couldn’t become annoyed with him; she was here as a supplicant, making a pitch for money. It was a ridiculous position to be in. She had tried so hard to support herself and had done a great job of it until recently, and now, as her father was being investigated by the government for bribery, she still had to come beg and allow him to pass judgment on her once again. Even the parental MasterCard had been canceled without explanation, so there was no backup source of funds.
The simple fact was she needed more money. She’d been able to somewhat keep up with her new social set so far, but the pace was quickening. In the past few weeks, Camilla had been pressing her to come to various events that were $500 or $750 apiece, and it wasn’t like she could ask Scot or Preston to pick up the tab. The clothes, too; she couldn’t believe how silly it sounded, but it was true. She had to have a whole slew of cocktail dresses, since wearing the same thing to events where she saw the same people was as weird as wearing the same jeans to work two days in a row. Those dresses were, even on a good sale, $600 each. Evelyn had ransacked the 401(k) from her textbook job, which helped for a while but disappeared fast. One key way to afford all this was to be able to afford it, like Camilla, in which case all the invitations were comped because the party organizers wanted Camilla on the step-and-repeat, and designers sent her dresses because they wanted the free publicity.
Everyone else had funds galore, if not from a job—and it rarely was from a job, except for the bankers—then from trust funds, parental subsidies, or other mythic sources. Evelyn wondered why, when she’d tried to be responsible her whole life, her parents didn’t find her worthy of such support. Actually, to be precise, she knew exactly why: because her father claimed to believe in the value of frugality, even as he was busy buying the dreadful and no doubt expensive maroon blazer he was wearing. He appeared to be especially shiny and salesmanlike today just to test her.
“So how are you, honey?” Dale said.
“Fine, Dad. Tired today; I was at a benefit with Preston and Camilla last night that went until two.”
“I thought your boyfriend’s name was Tate.”
“No. It’s not Tate. It’s Scot. Preston is one of my oldest friends. From Sheffield? You saw him at the Sheffield event.”
“Preston, that’s right. He’s that thin one. What does he do for work?”
What did any of these people do for work? Preston’s ill-defined investment work meant, as far as Evelyn could tell, he played golf and took lunches. Camilla had quit her Vogue job, as she’d said she would; the final straw had been when, as the special-events staff started work on the next year’s Costume Institute gala at the Met, Camilla had seen that Jessica Simpson was on the celebrity-invitee wish list and had thrown a fit.
&nb
sp; Camilla’s friends had part-time jobs that gave them plenty of time to do the benefit scene—global ambassador for a jewelry brand, or marketing consultant to Citarella, the gourmet store on the Upper East Side and in the Hamptons. Nick, who did work, was constantly late to parties, if he didn’t miss them altogether, and Camilla had been getting increasingly furious with him. There wasn’t a way to hold a job and do all of this, and in fact, the holding of a job seemed to disqualify you from ever really belonging in this group.
“Preston does investing stuff. But he’s a Hacking on his father’s side and a Winthrop on his mother’s, so it’s not like he really has to work,” Evelyn said. Yet money flowed his way still, thanks to his connections; Charlotte had been dumbfounded when she’d heard he’d made a bundle on a tech IPO that everyone in the market wanted in on.
“While I worked my way through law school I was a dishwasher, at a gritty old diner in downtown Chapel Hill.”
“I know, I know, Dad. I’m not sure Preston’s entertaining a career in dishwashing, though. Most of my friends don’t have full-time jobs.”
“That doesn’t follow.”
“I think it’s really hard to keep up with modern life and work all the time. It’s sort of one or the other.”
“That can’t be true, Evelyn. Your friends all say no thanks to work?”
“Not all my friends. Just, well. I work,” she said, shifting her weight on the stool and giving him what she hoped was a winning grin. It had been a relief, since she graduated from college, to have her own paycheck so she didn’t have to do this song and dance, but that paycheck barely covered anything in her life anymore. “So, Dad,” she said. “I was hoping I might get a check from you, just as a cushion.”
“You’re a grown-up. And you, I’m pleased to say, do have a job.” His eyes were looking behind her, at the menu written above the bar on a black chalkboard. “What about that. Pickled pigeon. Do you think they’re getting the pigeons from the sidewalk? My man?” he hollered, apparently about to ask that question, but Evelyn waved the counter guy away.
Everybody Rise Page 18
