“Tavern on the Green?” Julie suggested.
“Under the whale at Natural History?” Anna offered.
“Yes, yes, but everyone’s been there, done that.” Mrs. Von Bizmark dismissed the ideas.
“Rent a boat?” Julie suggested. Anna gave her a very slight negative shake of the head.
“Ugh.” Mrs. Von Bizmark groaned. “Definitely no boats.” She scowled at Julie to impress upon her the absolute antipathy the entire office should feel toward watercraft. “I so wanted to do this lunch at home!”
“What about Coolwater?” Anna said, intending it as a joke, but somewhere between her brain and her mouth, the message got confused. It came out sounding all too real. To Anna’s horror, Mrs. Von Bizmark jumped a little in her chair with a jolt of excitement. She was all hopped up about something, that was for sure; her eyes were practically sparkling. Anna could not stop herself from saying, “We could arrange helicopters—wouldn’t take much more travel time than getting downtown. And that would be very special.”
Julie’s expression said it all, one eyebrow raised, black-and-white mouth halfway open: Have you lost your mind?
“How many helicopters?” Mrs. Von Bizmark asked.
“Well, four guests per chopper—I’d say twenty-five?”
“This would all have to be arranged with military precision,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said.
“Naturally,” Anna responded.
“What about . . . the Metropolitan Museum?” Julie suggested, desperate to find an easier solution. “Rockefeller Center? The Rainbow Room? Pier Sixteen? The Pierre?”
“Coolwater is perfect!” Mrs. Von Bizmark said. “Opal just decided that the opera should be present day. We can use the great room out East as inspiration for the set.” She clapped her hands together in glee. “Let’s call Phil.”
“Hi, Phil,” Anna said extra loudly into the speakerphone to alert him. “We have some really exciting news . . .”
“Oh really,” he said, already annoyed. “What?”
“We’re moving the opera luncheon to Coolwater!”
“Is this some kinda joke?”
“Phil, dear, it’s Mrs. Von Bizmark.”
“Oh, hello!” Instant sunshine. “Mrs. Von Bizmark! How exciting!”
“It’s going to be about one hundred women in about . . .” She looked to Anna.
“Just under a month.” Anna smiled, thinking of Phil’s pained expression. He was probably biting his knuckle in rage.
“I . . .”
Phil could hardly get one syllable out before Mrs. Von Bizmark interrupted. “Now, I know what you’re thinking . . . that this is going to be a lot of work for you. But Anna’s on top of it. OK, Phil?” Mrs. Von Bizmark winked at Anna. “Right, Anna?”
“Right!” Anna ejected reflexively and jumped at the opportunity to answer the other line.
“Kissy Von—”
“Samuel Thomas Thorndale is going to do a feature on Kissy for their May issue,” Max gushed all at once. “He loved the public school angle! Like, obsessed.” If Mrs. Von Bizmark had not set the bar at Vogue, this would be quite a coup for Max. Samuel Thomas Thorndale, STT for short, ran the twenty-first-century New York City society pages, which comprised a photo-heavy website and glossy magazine titled Park and Fifth (“Chronicling the Upper East Side and Its Glittering Inhabitants Since 1990”). “I told him to speak to you all about scheduling a lunch so the two of them can catch up. I think he has a regular table at Sable’s. Is she in?” He was like a loyal dog, happily presenting a mauled animal carcass to his owner. As if this would distract her from Vogue.
Mrs. Von Bizmark, always happiest when being actively fawned over, became positively ecstatic as Max repeated himself. The call obliterated everything else on the docket. “I have to see Ping and Dr. Westley before this lunch. Today. Like, now,” Mrs. Von Bizmark announced. In addition to the weekly ministrations of Ping’s magic hands, she paid an outrageous retainer to a SoHo dermatologist so that the doctor would recognize lunch at Sable’s with STT as a medical emergency. “I need to freshen up. Do I have any gift cards left?”
“Sadly, no.” Mrs. Von Bizmark spent so much on her American Express card that she accumulated rewards points to the tune of 250,000 per month, which she then redeemed for gift cards that were essentially cash. She preferred using these for anything that called for discretion: anxiety medications, yet another Birkin, her third five-digit evening dress in a single day, and, of course, any cosmetic procedures beyond mere facials. Gift cards had paid for Mrs. Von Bizmark’s last trip to Switzerland, including the tummy tuck and three-week recovery at the spa, so no surprise that there were no more. The empty leather business card holder where they lived gave Anna an idea. “I’ll get some more today,” she said brightly.
Finished with the morning’s “business,” Mrs. Von Bizmark pressed her Goyard portfolio to her body with her bicep and held a slender bottle of green juice in her hands like a scepter. Before she slipped away, Anna said, “Oh, and about Opal . . . ,” wanting to know what exactly Mrs. Von Bizmark had accomplished.
“I said I took care of it,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said pointedly. That was the end of that discussion.
Thank goodness she had not had a chance to mention the invitations for the lunch, which had been drop-shipped from the printer the day before under Anna’s direct and hyperspecific instructions she had written in the notes (Make sure the flower on the crocus stamp is upright). Nor had they gotten to the topic of repairing the apartment damage, a timeline that could not even be explored, per the Silver Fox, until the entire area had been dehumidified for at least one week’s time.
So that would be next week’s problem. Today she still had to deal with Bloom coming to discuss the new venue. For the first time, Anna was thrilled to have someone on board to help her dig out from the tasks she felt buried beneath. She could just imagine how this new Coolwater concept would go over with their budget-constrained party planner. Of course, this turn of events had changed everything. Anna would happily tear up the contract rider! Whatever it cost would be fine as long as this elaborate lunch went off without a hitch.
Before the meeting, Anna showed Bloom the damage. They stood side by side in the Von Bizmark living room. The wall television, shattered. Chunks of plaster hung from the ceiling; several plastic bins caught water beneath. Two enormous dehumidifiers hummed in the corner. There was no way to control this part of the process, the Silver Fox had said to Anna.
“Oh my,” is all Bloom offered. “Your super did this?”
“Yup,” Anna said, not mentioning that he had only been suspended for a week, not fired.
“I thought my building stunk.” Bloom turned to Anna and looked up at her, even though she wore spike heels and Anna was in sneakers. “You know, Anna, it’s going to be doubly hard to deliver this all within budget.”
“Yes, well . . .”
Before Anna could say, No problem! Never mind the budget, Bloom interrupted her.
“But of course I will absolutely not go over!” Bloom’s gleeful cackling shot a bolt of terror down Anna’s spine.