Once through the doors of Girls, Inc., Julia immediately felt warmth and friendship and zero competition. It had been one of her first priorities when she moved to New York to find a place where she could volunteer, preferably working with young underprivileged women. She had always volunteered back home and during college, and her parents had instilled a sense of civic duty in her starting at an early age. The Pearces were the type of family that spent Thanksgiving doling out food in soup kitchens, and Christmas gathering presents for the poor. Her parents had always been extremely active in promoting the rights and health care of migrant workers. In fact, Julia’s mother, a registered nurse, volunteered her services three times a week at a Medical Mobile, which made the rounds to various wineries offering to treat workers for whatever ailments they had.
Julia had been referred to Girls, Inc., by a colleague of Lewis’s, and at once felt that, not only could she be of use, but the girls who attended could also be helpful to her in keeping her sane in this crazy city. The programs were designed to help inner-city girls build self-esteem through a myriad of classes from arts and crafts and theater to computer science. Julia tried to go as often as she could, but work was sometimes an obstacle.
When she burst through the large red doors, Purva, her department head, greeted her with a hug.
“Hi honey,” she said, giving Julia a big squeeze. “Josie and I missed you! I know you’re working hard, though.”
“Yeah, sorry I missed the other day,” Julia replied with a nod.
Julia followed Purva into a classroom at the end of the hall, and the girls immediately greeted Julia with enthusiasm.
“How’s your new job?” little nine-year-old Josie asked, plopping on Julia’s lap, touching her ponytail.
“Crazy,” Julia replied. “But being here balances everything out.”
Julia helped the other teacher set up the arts-and-crafts tables, and then rolled up her sleeves to get started. As she gathered the girls for an hour of beading bracelets, she smiled, knowing this was a haven where the only games were board games and the only pawns being played were on the chessboard.
chapter 12
“Alice, don’t break my heart. What will I do without you?”
“Oh, Mr. Banks,” laughed Alice. “You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know, Alice, I don’t know,” said Will, shaking his head. “You’ll be very missed. Please send me a postcard.”
“Yes, Mr. Banks,” giggled the fifty-year-old waitress in a manner more befitting a twenty-year-old waitress. “I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good, well have fun in Ireland. Give my love to the folks.”
“Will do, sir.”
Will smiled as he watched the heavyset woman lift her drink tray and walk into the kitchen. She was a doll. He loved all the Irish waitresses at the Badminton Club. They were such fun to tease. And Will knew that he was also one of their favorites. That was one of the things he had going for him: he was able to seduce anyone. He was a consummate flirt and everyone from serving staff to cabdrivers to CEOs of Fortune 500 companies to old ladies, even to his tough-as-nails mother-in-law, were unable to resist his charms.
Everyone, that is, except his beloved wife. She presented a constant challenge to him. When he first met her, he didn’t realize what a tough nut to crack she would be. He thought he knew everything about her, hell, he had read enough about her, and he didn’t even read fashion magazines. But when you see enough party pictures of someone, you think you know them. He had made assumptions. Well, he was wrong. In fact, every time he thought he knew Lell, she surprised him.
Will remembered the moment he first realized that Lell was a total enigma. They had been dating for five months, and he still felt like they were in that get-to-know-you phase, even though they were together practically every night. He’d never experienced that with women, usually by date number two they were picking out china patterns and doing everything possible to sink their claws into him (which only made him run faster for the hills). But with Lell it was different. She was always so distant that he couldn’t discern if she was interested in him at all.
But on this particular night, they had been at the Central Park Zoo dinner-dance, seated among the monkeys, when Lell made an offhand remark to Polly about how thrilled her mother would be when she and Will married. He was floored. It was the first time Lell had expressed any sort of desire about their future. In fact, it was the first time she had let him know her desires beyond what restaurant to book for dinner or which charity event she hoped to go to on Saturday night. And it was not out of character that the way she informed him of her feelings for him—that she wanted to marry him—was by allowing him to overhear her tell someone else. That was his problem with Lell; everything felt thirdhand. And even once he had her, she was still the girl he couldn’t get. It was frustrating, but also deeply intriguing. It was the first time that anyone had made him work for not only their approval, but their love. It had always been so easy, and with Lell it was not. And that excited Will.
At least it excited him at the time. But now that they had been together for several years, and had gotten married, for God’s sakes, he thought it would get easier. But it hadn’t, and in fact, it was beginning to frustrate him to no end that his wife didn’t seem happy with him. What’s more, she seemed to have developed a bitchy air of superiority that was driving him crazy.
“Hey, there, Mr. Banks, what was the score?” asked Henny, plopping down on the chair across from Will.
“I killed him.”
“No shit?”
“He was toast. It was pathetic. I told you I’ve been practicing.”
“I’m impressed,” said Henny, grabbing a large scoop of mixed nuts and cramming them all into his mouth. “Alice!”
Alice turned around with a smile, but her face darkened when she saw Henny. “Yes, Mr. Mecox.”
“Get me a whisky sour. What do you want, Banks?”
“I’m all set. Thanks, Alice.”
It was clear from Alice’s demeanor that she much preferred Mr. Banks to Mr. Mecox.
“Hey, did you get the Ferrari?” asked Henny, loosening his tie.
“Yeah. I ordered it. Should be here in two months.” It was a wedding gift from Lell. Will had hinted how much he liked Ferraris when they were visiting the Della Marco’s estate in Capri, and Lell got the hint.
“You dog, you!” hissed Henny.
“Dude, I need nice wheels.” No more two-year-old BMW for Will. Thank God his wife and her father were as status conscious as he was.
“So, listen, is your ball and chain dragging you to the Frick tonight? ’Cause if I have to step foot in one more fucking museum for one more fucking snooze-ass benefit, I’m going to freak out,” said Henny, cramming more nuts into his mouth with his fleshy hands.
Will watched Henny with disdain. Henny’s face was flushed and bloated, and his blue eyes looked watery from all of the alcohol he had consumed in his life. His reddish-blond hair was receding, and his stomach was bulging. He had that look that suggested he could be thirty-five or forty-five, and he was not even thirty-three. Will was proud of his own lean and muscular physique. Just a few sessions a week at the Badminton Club hitting the ball around, and he was bathing suit ready. He was like a girl that way. Always watching his figure.
“We’re going tonight,” sighed Will.
“Sucks. And Polly is in such a pissy mood these days. Totally on the rag or something. I’m so sick of her nagging shit.”
“That sucks.”
“You’re still in the honeymoon period, you lucky dog. Still getting laid, still wanting to spend time with your wife. She’s having fucking parties for you. Me, I can’t wait to get out of the house.”
“What about your kid? Aren’t you psyched to hang with him?”
“Quint? He’s a baby. Fast-forward me to when I can get the kid with a baseball in his hand and we can relate. I don’t do diapers.”
/>
“Harsh.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you’re going to be changing shitty diapers. I can’t even see Lell changing them. Hell, I can’t even see your wife pregnant. She’ll probably have someone do it for her.”
“Hey, watch it.”
“Kidding, dude!”
Alice came and placed a drink in front of Henny. He immediately took a swig, and when she started to walk away he grabbed her arm. “Another one,” he ordered.
“Take it easy, dude,” warned Will.
“No thanks. It’s the only way I can get through this life,” said Henny, sitting as far back in his chair as it would go.
Will hoped his life wouldn’t come to that. It seemed so depressing. But it couldn’t, he was nothing like Henny. Henny was a big, fat, overgrown frat boy, whose wife had him by the balls. That was not Will. That would never be Will.
chapter 13
The waitress at Jackson Hole smiled patiently as Gavin recited his order. “Umm . . . French fries.”
“Right, sweetie, we got that already,” prompted Hope. “How about something a little more nutritional?”
“Um, a milk shake?” asked Gavin.
“We’ll just get an order of chicken fingers for them, with the fries, and I’ll have a tuna salad, please.”
“And a milk shake!” reminded Gavin.
“And a vanilla milk shake,” added Hope, smiling.
“No prob,” said the waitress, sauntering to the counter.
Gavin and Chip were dressed adorably in matching blue Ralph Lauren cable knit sweaters, and little Gap cords. Hope was always so proud when she was out with her boys. She knew she was biased, but people had confirmed that they were just deliciously adorable. She couldn’t argue with that.
“So how was school, bunny rabbit?” asked Hope.
“Good,” said Gavin. He was busy trying to drink water from two straws she’d cobbled together for him.
“Me, too, Mama,” said Chip, who handed his mother two straws. These days he wanted to do everything to emulate his big brother.
Hope took two straws and hooked them together and handed them to her son. As her sons slurped their drinks, the voice of two girls next to her caught her attention.
“Oh my God, Orlando Bloom is so not cute. He’s like a dog. His body is just so skinny and he has no muscles.”
“No way! He’s so hot.”
“Brad Pitt like blows him out of the water.”
“Gross. Brad Pitt is like my dad’s age.”
“So what? He is the most gorgeous man on the planet. Ask anyone!”
Hope turned to the girls and smiled. “I agree,” she said.
The girls, who were both probably around fifteen, looked at Hope blankly.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. I think Brad is definitely the sexiest man alive.”
The girls exchanged looks and then mumbled, “Yeah,” before turning back to their food.
And suddenly it was as if a ton of bricks hit Hope in the face. Oh my God, she thought. I am old. Here she was, listening to these girls, totally relating to them and their conversation, totally hip to the whole Orlando versus Brad debate, and yet these teenagers saw her as a mother, some uncool adult, someone they might address as “ma’am.” It made her so sad.
How could she not see the warning signs? Lately, every time she picked up Us magazine there was more and more focus on stars like Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff—seventeen-year-olds, for Lord’s sake! She was getting a little old for reading trash like that. And come to think of it, she hadn’t been carded in years, even when she wore her hair in a ponytail. When was the last time she went to a nightclub? Literally, not in this century. Pathetic.
Hope looked at her boys, and although she loved them dearly, she realized that life had become their story now, not hers. Now she was the supporting player. She knew who she would marry; she knew what her wedding dress looked like; she knew what sex her children would be; she knew where she would work. All of the questions that she wondered about when she was a teenager had been answered. Although she was only twenty-eight, that was it. Nothing exciting was going to happen. She loved and adored Charlie, but she’d never experience falling in love again. She’d just get older and crinklier and wrinklier and less and less attractive. It was so unfair that men aged well and only got more desirable as they got older.
Hope glanced at the girls next to her. They were still in their school uniforms, although they’d rolled up the skirts as far as the school would allow, and they had accessorized their white shirts with jewelry and scarves so they could have some identity. They were casually munching on onion rings—of course they didn’t worry about weight yet. Ah, the arrogance of youth. They didn’t realize how lucky they were. She remembered her dad always said to her, “You don’t realize.” And now she knew what he was talking about.
I wish I could have one more turn, thought Hope. She didn’t know quite at what—to feel young again, to feel attractive again, to be surprised again. Just one more chance to not think about all the stupid stuff—like where to order takeout from or who to seat next to whom at a dinner party or will the boys get into a good after-school program—but one more chance to think of something that didn’t matter. One more chance to be reckless. Without consequences, preferably. But that would never happen, sighed Hope. She was used goods.
chapter 14
Dearest Penny and Brooks,
Henny and I had such a lovely time at your dinner party last Wednesday that it was absolutely worth missing the second to last episode of The Bachelorette (thank God for TiVo, right?). Your apartment couldn’t be more charming and I really admire the way you’ve done up the place. How clever to have those nesting tables! They really do make the space feel so much bigger. And you totally compensate well for the fact that you don’t have a separate dining room. The Chinese screen is a nice touch, and you would never notice the scratch. It is so nice to have friends with good taste, and to be able to go to those friends with good taste’s homes and digest their wonderful choice of decor. We simply must see you soon, and we are so thrilled you are joining us at our table for the EAT (Erase Acne Today) Benefit. It is such an important cause for us, especially since Henny’s youngest sister Dorothy has been battling this gruesome affliction for years. (Cystic.) Thank you again.
Fondly, Polly
As the Mecoxes exited their building into the brisk March evening air to the comfort of their heated town car, Polly handed her doorman the thank-you note to her former college roommate, written out in practiced cursive on her ivory monogrammed Mrs. John L. Strong stationery. By the time the car lurched from the curb, en route to Doubles for Will Banks’s birthday fête, the doorman had snapped shut the mail slot and the note was nestled deep down in the bowels of the brass postal box, awaiting an early-morning pickup.
From the sheer opulence and extravagance of the party that Lell was hosting for her new husband, one would never know that her family had recently spent several million dollars on a wedding. Marcus Harrington, the party planner of the moment, had been enlisted to “work his magic” and was given carte blanche to make the affair memorable. Lell had dismissed several suggestions of having the party be Moroccan-themed or forcing guests to wear costumes, complaining that costumes were so passé, much more to be expected from the older society gang—Rosemary Peniston and Olivia Weston’s set. Those gals had had their moment, and now the younger generation was movin’ on in for the flashbulbs. With that in mind, Lell was determined to create a night that was beyond compare. Having just returned from an exotic land on her honeymoon, Lell immediately concurred with Marcus’s idea to go tribal.
As guests walked into the ballroom, they made their way through two long rows of twenty of the most chiseled, handsome, and fantastically fit African-American male models (booked from the top agencies in New York) dressed in loin cloths. All of the men were holding long flaming torches, and stood stoically, staring straight ahead, their dark skin glistening with oi
l. African music thundered overhead, and the beat of the drums coupled with the models’ gigantic shadows dancing on the walls against the flickering candlelight was both impressive and frightening.
As soon as the Mecoxes made their way through the gleaming bodies, and hacked their way past the hundreds of palm trees and other foliage that had been flown in from Senegal for the evening, Henny headed to the bar to pick up a coconut drink. Polly scanned the crowd for her friends. It was hard to see where anyone was through the thick bush. After pushing her way past the limbo stick, she at once zeroed in on Julia Pearce, who was reaching for a canapé and chatting with the waiter. Polly studied her from head to toe. Although obviously solo, she seemed totally at ease. She was wearing a beautiful lacey pearl dress that only she could pull off, with a dramatic ruby necklace, probably on loan from Pelham’s. Polly made her way over.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, my friend Douglas couldn’t make it. It’s his four-year anniversary with his boyfriend, Lewis.”
“Then we’ll be Velcro tonight. Henny is going to station himself at that tropical drink bar for the next three hours and I have no patience for that. Let’s do the rounds.”
Polly linked arms with Julia and guided her around the room. She was like a peacock preening before the crowds, showing off her beautiful feathers.
“Wow, what the hell is Meredith thinking in that outfit? She looks ten months pregnant,” sneered Polly, turning her abruptly away from a girl Julia recognized as one of Lell’s bridesmaids.
Julia thought it wise not to comment.
“What do you think about these male models?” asked Polly.
“It’s a little—startling.” Julia knew she had to be diplomatic, as it was her boss’s party, but she was actually repulsed. It was beyond racist and she was sickened by the objectification of all these men. This was money put to the most bizarre use she had ever seen. She was a bit surprised that all the guests were white (with the exception of two Asian couples who were later pointed out as belonging to “big Hong Kong families”) and those male models were just standing there watching everything. She shuddered.
Wolves in Chic Clothing Page 7
