“Whoa,” one of the men muttered.
Someone from Ariadne finally arrived at the back door, and Julie rushed the guy upstairs. The police took pictures, and the chief requested ten minutes with Anna to “ask a few questions.” Which was perfect because of course she had all the time in the world to jump through hoops for Forstbacher, who was probably already unconscious and about to receive a titanium joint. They went over the timeline, starting with the faulty toilet.
“But you just have to jiggle the handle a little,” one of the cops interjected.
“The Von Bizmarks don’t jiggle,” Anna said, and all of the police nodded in understanding.
Within ten minutes of the actual plumber arriving, the flow of water had been shut off and was replaced by myriad drip-drip-drips all over. The living room had reached the humidity level and soundtrack of a grotto. After punctuating most of Anna’s story with laughter, the police took off. As she closed the door behind them, the phone began ringing. Julie was still upstairs dealing with the flood, so Anna had to run to her desk to grab it before it went to voice mail. She was surprised to hear, “Hello, this is Delilah Sellers.”
“Principal Sellers!” she said, panting lightly, buying time.
“Yes, hello,” said a tired voice. “How can I help you?”
“Um, well, actually . . .” Spit it out, Anna. “I was thinking we might be able to help you.”
“Anna, is it? Look, I’m busy relocating about seven hundred kids to a dozen heated tents we had to erect in our parking lot to keep classes going. Can you make it quick?”
By the time Anna had sketched out the gist of involving the opera, the ball, and the Von Bizmarks to help raise money for the school, she had coaxed Sellers’s rock-solid cynicism into healthy skepticism.
“Look, Miss, we can’t just take your money for capital improvements. There’s a whole DOE process that would have to be administered.”
“I’m excellent at navigating byzantine regulatory bodies, actually,” Anna said, since it was a part of nearly every task she undertook, from arranging Mrs. Von Bizmark’s minor plastic surgeries to renting a Mediterranean superyacht.
“So let me get this straight,” Sellers said. “You’re going to auction off several valuable works of art . . .”
Works of art! Oh shit! Anna looked at her watch: 6:47 p.m. Her show started in thirteen minutes, and she was at least thirty minutes away by train. Certainly no way to go home and change. Or even get there on time. Or think! Or anything! She wrapped up her conversation with Principal Sellers, promising more details soon.
“I’ll meet you there!” Julie shouted as Anna rushed from Park Avenue and into a cab to hasten down to Greene Street. Adrian had at least agreed to turn on the lights, so he was there with the intern, and hopefully he had the crudités out and . . . Anna dug in her bag for something, anything like makeup or an earring. She came up with ChapStick. As the driver careened around Park Avenue, she studied herself in the rearview mirror. She saw a mess of brown hair, which she quickly tied into a topknot. Her face was wan and greasy after the flood: she looked like someone who subsisted on cigarettes and coffee. At least her long-sleeved shirt was black.
She pulled up to the curb two minutes before seven, confused to find a line of people waiting outside. Her Columbia intern was intently studying her watch just outside the locked glass doors, four large grocery bags at her feet; Adrian was supposed to have let her in an hour ago. Anna raced out of the cab to open the door, and everyone started filing in. As people crowded the drinks table, they poured themselves room-temp vinho verde because Adrian had not shown up with the ice, as planned. Before Anna started making the rounds, she took three seconds to text him:
WHERE ARE YOU????
She sloshed herself some wine and took a swig: lukewarm.
Other than the swill . . . it looked like the evening in fact was coming together! Jazz played softly in the background as people walked counterclockwise around the room as intended, taking their time as they studied the paintings. Many were also carefully reading the small plaques Julie had so painstakingly affixed beneath each canvas, listing the painting’s title, medium, and date of completion. Some were reading the price lists and perusing her bio. A gray-haired couple in black wool turtlenecks gestured at the cityscape piece on the far wall; he traced the dark skyline with his outstretched hand as she nodded along. It was a small space, but it was packed by 7:15 p.m.
Adrian finally materialized at 7:23 p.m. with eight bags of ice, which matched Anna’s disposition toward him. He kissed her on the cheek but seemed as distracted as she was angry. “Show looks great, babe,” he said vaguely and then went to put the remaining bottles of wine on ice, though they would never cool in time.
The space stayed full for a solid two hours. Anna’s MFA friends came five at a time to kiss and congratulate her. Yale Alumni Magazine had sent a reporter who looked like she was still in college; she snapped pictures hesitantly with her phone. Mrs. Von Bizmark showed up right at the halfway point, dressed to the nines in a velvet jade Saint Laurent gown and carrying a Leiber bag shaped like an asparagus tip. She stayed for ten minutes and left for a dinner at Eric Ripert’s newest French hot spot. Anna chatted up a finance guy and his girlfriend; they seemed legitimately interested. Lindsay came late, all apologies and attaché cases and corporate speak. She gushed to Anna about how marvelous everything looked, but Anna could hardly listen because the opening was almost over, and her eyes kept darting to the door to see if Miranda Chung had arrived.
“Thanks so much for coming,” Anna said to Lindsay, sparing her a quick glance.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Huge congratulations,” Lindsay said. Did Anna imagine her eyes doing a quick survey of the small room? “Huge.”
SIX
January 14
Bambi woke to find a note on Peter’s cards she’d had Anna get for him from his favorite stationer in Zurich. It was truly a lovely paper, made of 10 percent mulberry silk in a staid gray with the vaguest suggestion of platinum. His full name dominated the top of the card in austere charcoal serif. He’d written in blocky text with a black Sharpie:
SAW STATE OF LIVING ROOM AND WENT TO PENINSULA.
It was like a telegraph or something. Bambi felt . . . sad? Yes, sad. There it was, really, fully formed. Her husband was out. Her kids were at boarding school. She was all alone in the apartment. Well, Peony was there. With Nanny. But really, Bambi was alone.
As if searching in a dark closet, she found her outrage from the previous day at Opal’s absence. Today, she’d take the bull by the horns. Bambi threw back the covers, up early (9:47 a.m.) and ready to do some business. After a shower, she buzzed Anna and asked her to tell Opal she’d be in to see her in about an hour. Anna hesitated, which was annoying. She could usually read Bambi’s mind.
“Just tell her I have some important ideas that I must share with her today.”
“Uh, OK,” Anna said.
“Get next-door glam ASAP please.”
What to wear what to wear what to wear. Well, there was always a business suit, Chanel. Or Valentino. Dolce. Pretty silk dress. Pants and a button-down. Bambi decided on a gray wool Carolina Herrera suit with a very pretty pleated skirt, a cream bow shirt, and a tidy little jacket that flattered her small waist. This would be the perfect time to throw on that lariat she’d been pining for, but she didn’t own it yet. Instead she chose cabochon ruby earrings with a matching broach.