“Sweetheart, I’ve got about ten thousand calls in to my contacts at Vogue.”
Avi was also no fan of Anna’s grand helicopter scheme, which she was growing to regret more and more with every passing moment. It turned out that flying everyone there constituted a classic case of exposing the Von Bizmarks to unwanted and costly legal activity.
“Every guest will have to sign a waiver,” Avi insisted.
“Hmmm, that doesn’t sound very festive.”
“How does a bankrupting lawsuit sound, Anna? Festive? One of those women’s estates could and would sue for millions, but you’d lose four or five at a time. Way too much exposure.”
“Can it be really simple? Something we can print on a postcard and have them sign as they board?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Everyone had their cross to bear, and Anna’s was Pippy Petzer. Time for her afternoon attempt. Anna waited for the same old voice mail to kick in, but instead, there was nothing. Just the sound of breathing. Not even a hello.
“Mrs. Petzer?” Anna said, awash in disbelief. Two times in one day.
“Yes?”
“My goodness, I am so happy to have reached you again.”
“Who is this?”
“Anna in Bambi Von Bizmark’s office. I’m calling to follow up on the invitation to—”
“Yes, I have this . . . thing . . . in my hand. Listen, it’s terribly inconvenient to expect people to travel all the way to the Hamptons on a Tuesday, for goodness’ sake. I just don’t think I can do it.”
“But Mrs. Petzer . . .” Think, Anna, think. “Mrs. Von Bizmark was hoping you would go in her own private helicopter with Samuel Thomas Thorndale.” Quiet. Blessed reconsideration. Anna held her breath. “Of course, he’s eager to speak with you for the feature he’s working on.”
“I see.”
“And you will be joining the Von Bizmarks at the ball, of course?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Anna?” Mr. Von Bizmark’s surprising and displeased voice behind her made her jump. He must be just back from his trip. It was unusual for him to show up in the office like this. Anna felt a little quiver of panic. Was he there to fire her?
“OK thanks we’ll send a confirmation bye,” she said and hung up on Mrs. Petzer.
Anna spun around in time to see Mr. Von Bizmark say, “Hello, Jenna.”
“It’s Julie,” Julie said.
“I know.” He looked more tired and more annoyed than usual. “Where is she?”
“At the spa,” Anna said. It was much more discreet than the dermatologist.
He snorted. “What does she want to do for our anniversary? Florence told me to talk to you about it.”
“Well, I . . .” Anna went to the calendar. They had a theater series that evening, some new play about a divorce that they should surely skip. They could go to her favorite little Italian place downtown, except Mr. Von Bizmark thought it was too loud and “just too Italian, if you know what I mean.” They could do something fun, like rent a boat and cruise around the island. Except she would hate that. This was a woman whose list of dislikes grew longer with every passing moment and who had everything she wanted with one exception: an outrageously expensive and completely unnecessary estate piece from Harry Winston she’d been accumulating credit toward for years. “There is that—”
“I’m not spending five million on a necklace,” he interrupted.
Anna knew this was a chance for her to redeem herself; she’d been so off her game recently that this would be a big win. If she could orchestrate a glorious anniversary, not only would she improve her professional standing, but she would also enhance the job security of all those around her. And of course maybe nudge the Von Bizmark marriage to a happier place. “What if Julie and I plan something here at the house?” Anna said. Mr. Von Bizmark looked instantly skeptical about this plan. “We can get Chef to come. Make it special.” Anna knew Mrs. Von Bizmark would prefer this. Well, she was pretty sure.
“Fine. Could you get me the car, please? You can tell Mrs. Von Bizmark and Cristina—”
“What, I’m right here!” Cristina announced, shooting out of the laundry room to stand in front of Mr. Von Bizmark just a smidge too closely. “What,” she demanded.
“Hello, Cristina,” he said. It was unclear whether he tolerated her sharp tongue or did not even notice. “I will be staying at the Peninsula until that”—he flapped his hand toward the living room with disgust—“dump is cleaned up.”
“This place is not good enough for you now!” Cristina said a little hysterically. Anna forced herself to emit a staccato ha ha to indicate that it was a joke. Julie gamely jumped in, and as soon as the front door had closed behind him, Cristina snapped at Anna, “See?! See! There is a problem!”
“I don’t know, Cristina. We’re going to try and help,” Anna said, but Cristina only waved a hand towel at her dismissively and disappeared. “Right, we’re going to help?” Anna said to Julie brightly. The only response she got was a hangdog stare. “So that’s a stupid idea, huh?”
“Like we don’t have enough to worry about?” Julie said.
She was right. Planning something spectacular for Mrs. Von Bizmark would require extrasensory levels of intuition about their employer. The only predictable thing about her was the likelihood of displeasing her. Many gift givers had crashed on the shoals of Mrs. Von Bizmark’s specific tastes, breadth of knowledge, and limitless budget. There was a double-door closet (right next to the stationery closet) for regifting full of unimaginative luxuries like Hermès scarves (boring), Prada bags (yawn), and a million fragrances when anyone who knew her well knew Kissy Von Bizmark wore only her own proprietary scent blended at Fragonard in Paris. Mr. Von Bizmark had planned a birthday dinner at Per Se for her once, but the next day she’d grumbled endlessly to Anna about the length of it, the volume of food, the disappointing guest list (“Who told him to invite that dressmaker from Dallas?” she’d asked of a particularly aggressive, overpriced, divorced couturier, but Anna declined to name the guilty party—Florence). Could Anna impress and delight Kissy Von Bizmark where Peter Von Bizmark had failed?
First she had to lock down Chef. The Mrs. didn’t want to eat dinner every night in the city, but she didn’t want to lose Chef. So she paid her a full-time salary and allowed her to live off-season at the Castle guesthouse, a sumptuous four-bedroom home tucked into the woods by the water, which was where Anna reached her.
She could hear Colombian music blaring in the background. “Hola, Anna!” Chef said, upbeat. “I’m making jam.” She sounded so relaxed . . . just making some jam on a winter weekday. “I got these peaches straight from a friend’s farm in Chile.” Chef’s secret weapon was a rarefied international network of food purveyors.
“Chef, Mr. Von Bizmark wants you to come to the city for their anniversary and make something spectacular for just the two of them. It’s their twenty-fifth.”
“All right, all right, very cool.”
“I was thinking seafood—”