As exciting as this all was, Anna could see through this ruse. Since all the logistics for the ball could have been handled by phone, this meant the Von Bizmarks were definitely at odds. Next would be a trip to the couples counselor followed by a renegotiation of their wills. While this had all happened before, Anna had never known them to end a vacation early. Except the time Mrs. Von Bizmark had feigned a stomach illness to disembark prematurely from a friend’s yacht in Portofino (“It was like escaping a prison!” Mrs. Von Bizmark later gushed).
“Well, congratulations!” Anna said; in her seat, she always had to play along.
“I know we’ve done plenty of balls and galas and parties . . .” Mrs. Von Bizmark began a pep talk but instantly lost her train of thought, traveling back through the annals of her social calendar. “Dinners . . . concerts . . .”
“Yes, I was—” Anna started.
“But this one, Anna,” Mrs. Von Bizmark interrupted. “This one is . . .”
“A really big deal,” Anna said.
“First there’s the luncheon. The opera will handle the production and almost all of the gala, other than seating. But the luncheon! It’s up to us.”
All major happenings in New York society called for at least one significant “preparty” in order to build momentum, raise more money, and capture any potential attendees with conflicts for the main do. It was like you couldn’t throw a successful party without actually having at least two. Typically, the first was less formal and held at someone’s home to limit expenditures, maximize profits, and dangle a rare opportunity to see the inner sanctum of another multimillionaire’s life.
“Should we have it—” Anna started.
“At home, exactly!” Mrs. Von Bizmark interrupted again. Cristina brought her an espresso, setting it down on top of a small tangerine cotton bar square.
“And you were thinking of doing it when?” Anna asked.
“I don’t know . . . a few weeks from now? Less than two months. Richard says ASAP.” Of course Richard would want the cash to start flowing. With the help of her colleague, Julie, Anna would have to put on a perfect ladies’ luncheon for one hundred—maximum capacity in the Von Bizmark living and dining rooms—in about six weeks’ time.
“That’s going to be tough with New Year’s at the end of the week,” Anna said, hoping to buy a month.
“It’s just a lunch,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said with a flick of her wrist. “Get Richard, please.”
Anna quickly did so, and Mrs. Von Bizmark picked up breathlessly, as if she’d run to the phone. “Richard!” She laughed. “You know, Peter and I are just so excited about this, and I wanted to get with you right away on choosing a luncheon date . . . uh-huh. Right. I’m sorry? . . . uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh! My goodness. What’s the budget?” She wrote down a number many digits long and poked her fountain pen at the end of it, creating a big black dot. “And this includes Opal’s participation as creative director?” Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, do double-check, will you, Richard?”
Mrs. Von Bizmark placed the phone down and sighed. “They want us to pay for the whole production . . . the performers, the costumes, set”—she looked at her notes—“the webcast, this Austrian conductor . . .” Her eyes narrowed on the incredibly long figure she had just jotted down. “I’ll have to discuss it with Peter.” Even for the Von Bizmarks, there were such things as “significant purchases.”
As if snapping out of a trance, Mrs. Von Bizmark said, “What time is my facial?”
“Two p.m.,” Anna said, although of course there was technically no such appointment since Mrs. Von Bizmark was supposed to be in Aspen. These particulars were of no interest to Kissy V. Bizmark. “The car will be downstairs at one fifteen. In ten minutes.” Anna quickly texted the Von Bizmark chauffeur: SOS, their code for Be here now.
“So, Anna, just get the ball rolling, all right?” Mrs. Von Bizmark said. As she pulled on a random fur from the office armoire, she asked, “Are you free to come in tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Anna said. In fact, it was good timing for Anna to work more at the Von Bizmarks’, as she was in between projects in the studio. There was always a natural lull in between creative bursts, followed by a few weeks of stalling and procrastination.
But this was different. Anna was waiting to get the call from the gallery where she had submitted her work. Surely once she signed with them, they would want to influence her future pieces, depending on the reaction to the series Anna had recently completed. It was her strongest work to date, and Anna just had a feeling it was going to sell and sell well. She smiled to herself, imagining a feature in BOMB magazine, her picture on the cover of the Arts section in the Times . . .
The ding-ding-ding of the front door announcing Mrs. Von Bizmark’s departure snapped Anna back to the task at hand. She dialed the salon downtown. Every Tuesday when the temperature fell below freezing, Mrs. Von Bizmark went for a facial with Ping. It had to be with Ping or else. Dozens of Park Avenue ladies fought for a spot in Ping’s chair, with her various needles and potions and her skilled hands. Anna silently prayed to the aesthetician gods as she dialed.
“I’m just calling to confirm today’s appointment.”
“We don’t have anything today for Mrs. Von Bizmark, and Ping is totally booked.”
“We’ll pay double,” Anna said.
“Aaahhhh . . .” The receptionist wavered.
“Triple.”
“Hold, please.” Anna imagined the vivid conversation in Mandarin happening in the back corridors of the salon before the receptionist popped back on and agreed to the deal. Anna breathed a sigh of relief.
Before she could even start thinking about the luncheon, the day and all its complexities had to be unfolded. Anna went upstairs to find Cristina to make a grocery list now that the Von Bizmarks were unexpectedly in residence. If the Mrs. didn’t have her staples—cold-pressed juice, cold-brewed coffee, farm-fresh organic half-and-half, and pistachio gelato (imported from Milan)—then everyone was in trouble. The Mr. required only an evening cognac, and they had enough in his cabinet to last a nuclear winter.
The Von Bizmark bedroom, a fifteen-hundred-square-foot former living room, retained the paneling and the fireplace, of course, but a huge bed sprawled where another family might have put their couch. On every surface—the white suede chaise, the coffee table, the easy chairs—sumptuous clothes lay strewn in the hopes that not every single item would need to be pressed. But of course, they all would. Open suitcases and steamer trunks crammed the floor space.
Cristina, in her gray maid’s uniform, stood steaming a white silk Brunello Cucinelli gown. Alicia, perpetually cheerful, spry, and ageless for her sixty-two years, and in pink, wrestled with a fox cape, while plumper, younger Josefina, wearing powder blue, folded a silk caftan with her twelve-year-old daughter, Ilana. When Ilana had been accepted at a gifted school for the visual arts in Harlem the year before, Josefina had proudly informed Anna that her daughter was going to be an artist—just like Anna. Since they lived over an hour away in the Bronx, Anna had negotiated with the Mrs. to allow Josefina to bring Ilana to work on occasional half days at school, but this had grown to include whenever school was not in session. Ilana was supposed to sit in the maids’ room and do homework, but Anna frequently found her in the apartment helping her mom, which was lovely but, according to Avi, a violation of child labor laws.