She tosses her head back as she laughs. “No one watched High School Musical for the songs, Easton. But there’s no love lost between Zac Efron and me. I’m more of a Thor gal. Or Captain America. Also, Iron Man. I just dig a salty sense of humor.”
“That’s why you should perform at my party,” I cajole. “You could meet a nice, tall, smart man for your project.” I know what my sister wants most in life.
But she shakes her head. “And that’d be a no. Let’s move on to other topics. Tell me the theme of the party this weekend.” She softens her voice for a moment. “In case you need a last-minute womanly touch.”
I do need that, but I learned a lot from working with Anna on these parties years ago. I didn’t always host my parties stag.
“I have a womanly touch,” I say. “Grandma is a great business partner. She is incredibly hip.”
“And horny.”
“Tra la a la,” I say, covering my ears.
“Do not disparage the sex drives of women over seventy-five,” Rory says. “Sex is alive and well in septuagenarians. Didn’t you see the recent Dating Pool article—”
“Anyway,” I interrupt, “the theme is ‘Old School.’ And I’ll take images from this weekend’s event to Victoire when I meet the CEO on Monday.”
“Ooh, the fancy watchmakers? They would be a great corporate partner for your romance mixers. And didn’t you just snag a fancy perfume maker?”
“That’s parfumier to you, missy. And thanks, I think so too.”
As we walk, I outline the theme of the party this weekend, and when I’ve given the rundown, Rory nods.
“I like it,” she says. “And see? All of that will help you get the media coverage you want.”
“That’s the goal. More coverage by the pubs that reach my target market and the right kind of buzz that brings in new guests. Guests who realize this is a better way to meet.”
Rory stops and reaches for my arm, halting me too. “You know, just because you had skin in the game once with your app doesn’t mean you’re responsible for the horrible experiences people have with online dating,” she says gently.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I ask, resignation in my tone. It’s a battlefield out there. “Women deserve better than the guys out there. Guys like your ex.”
She shudders. “Yes, refusing to move out of my apartment and stealing twenty-thousand dollars from me qualifies as bad. But,” she says, holding up a finger, “it could have been worse.”
“How?”
“At least I got the apartment. It’s rent-controlled.”
I roll my eyes. “But that’s my point. Romance should be about more than who gets a better deal on rent.”
She shrugs. “Not sure I agree. I’d do just about anything for a deal on rent, and so will most New Yorkers.”
“Which is even more reason to make my parties more popular and successful than apps will ever be.” That means finagling the right media coverage and growing the business. If I play my cards right, I can expand beyond New York. Take this concept to cities all over the United States. Bring real-world romance to the masses. “I’m committed to making Carpe Diem better.”
“Admit it—you want to take over the world,” she says as we reach Seventh Avenue. “You are so Jay Gatsby, just like Page Six said.”
My mind trips back to last week. To the one who got away.
“Earth to Easton.” Rory snaps her fingers. “Where did you just drift off to?”
I shake my head, but I can’t shake off that night at The Lucky Spot. “At Spencer’s masquerade I met this woman . . .”
I tell my sister about my stranger. We’ve always talked about our love lives.
Rory cracks up as we near the subway entrance. “I want to meet this rare bird. Is she the first person ever in your life to turn you down?”
I shoot her a searing stare. “She’s not the first.”
But close.
My sister taps her chin. “You’re right. There was Jenna in tenth grade on account of the cucumber lime. And wasn’t there Martina when you were twenty-four? The one who said you were too pretty to be trusted?”
I nod grudgingly. “Yes, that’s what she said.”
Rory counts off on her fingers. “So that’s Jenna, Martina, and the lady in the flapper dress. My three heroes.”
I growl. “Did I say I wanted you to do a set at one of my parties and pay you in five figures? I think I was wrong.”
“Ah! He admits he is wrong. Amazing,” Rory teases, but when she pauses to say goodbye, a certain gravitas settles over her gaze. “If there’s a goddess in this universe, you’ll run into your mystery woman again.”
We say goodnight, then Rory turns at the downtown station. I head uptown, wishing there were a goddess but knowing that that’s not how the world works.
6
Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs Podcast . . .
Episode Draft: The Cost of An Invitation
* * *
Supposedly, you’ll hear the whoosh of the invitation as it slides under your door, as if the paper stock has wings. Then, the invited will gasp, grab the card, and carefully slide open the flap with trembling, eager fingers.
What will it say underneath? How will the avant-garde host invite you—lucky one—to one of his notorious underground fêtes?
With a simple courier font, of course. If you’re receiving one of these coveted invitations, you don’t need it to be penned in gold or silver.
Just a basic typewriter script will be enough.
And it will say you’ve been invited, and now it is time to carpe diem.
But at what cost? Let’s find out, dear listener.
7
The Party Crasher
In the corner of the mansion’s majestic living room, a piano player caresses love songs on a baby grand. Billiard tables invite guests to engage in a round, and the library down the hall offers an escape. After all, libraries are ideally designed for two of life’s greatest pleasures—reading and sex.
In one hour, the doors will open at this elegant brownstone, rented for the night. Tablet in hand, my trusty second-in-command reviews the final details. AKA, my grandmother, Coco.
“Don’t forget, you want Mateo Reyes to meet Allison Stein,” she says, peering at the guest list.
“I’ll make it happen. And Sam, I have in mind for Priya. But she’s selective, and wants to meet a handful of men, so let’s make sure the team is aware, Coco,” I say.
With a nod, she taps the screen. “I’ll make sure your fellow hosts and hostesses know what Priya’s goals are,” she says. At every exclusive romance party I throw, my grandmother debriefs my associates so they can facilitate the intros I want to make happen.
“Who else do you want to review?” I ask.
“What about Hazel Valentine? She’s coming tonight. I do love her books.” Coco peers at the tablet through leopard print glasses. Every pair of eyeglasses she owns evoke a jungle animal.