“Was Max helpful at least?” Anna asked, remembering with a dismal sensation that Max hadn’t exactly raved about their progress with her speech.
“We’ll see if he knows this audience,” Sellers said noncommittally.
“If there’s one thing I’d say about Max, it’s that he is in touch with this crowd.”
“It’s just that this school isn’t something ‘this crowd’ can use and enjoy later. You know what I mean?” She was right. People generally preferred to put their money where their interests lay: arts, diseases, and private schools.
“You have to explain what they get out of it.”
“That’s what Max said.”
“And remember, they’re just like everyone else.”
Principal Sellers gestured at the mansions springing up beneath them, sprawling monstrosities with enormous amenities: the Hamptons. “Are they?” Sellers asked, pointing at a house with two pools, four tennis courts, and what appeared to be a minigolf course.
Approaching the Castle from the sky, it really did feel like somehow you were no longer on Long Island but in the Loire Valley. A lush, half-mile, tree-lined drive led up to the expansive gravel forecourt. At its center, an enormous tiered marble fountain encased in bursts of flowers bubbled to welcome those plebeians arriving by car. From the helicopter, you could make out the shape of the main house, a giant U that mimicked the cove behind it. Guesthouses dotted the peninsulas on either side. Tucked away, two tennis courts concealed a parking lot for fifty and, before that, the pool, which, even though it was the dead of winter, glimmered and gave off steam as if one of the guests might take a dip. Bloom must have insisted that the guests enjoy the mosaic at the bottom, a significant work of art in itself.
The reception was in the tent on the south lawn, by the two helicopter pads. The head gardener had carefully designed a path lined with some sort of trendy, sustainable Indonesian “sea wheat,” he’d explained to Anna in order to justify some eye-popping figure that she had lacked the motivation to quibble with him about. She could see his point—it was a taller kind of grass with a lilac hue that very prettily indicated the way from the disembarkation point to the step and repeat and on to the tent.
By that point, most of the guests should have been inside already, but as they came in to land, Anna spied a bottleneck at the very start of the path. Everyone seemed focused on three gleaming blond horses on the grass. At least thirty women clustered around, watching them. And they were beautiful, but they were just sort of standing there, shaking their manes . . . or tearing and eating the Indonesian “sea wheat” as if it was the most delicious thing they had ever tasted. Many city ladies had stopped to watch this rural display. Anna could not help but wonder if this was part of Bloom’s revenge plan.
Julie took Sellers past the crowd to find Mrs. Von Bizmark while Anna edged up to the step and repeat, a dramatic wall of assorted white blooms and a white carpet with diffuse lighting that would surely make for great pictures. Guests waited their turn while a cluster of three turned, laughed, and posed on the predetermined “best angle” spot, marked with a rose embossed into the white carpet beneath their pristine shoes. Pippy Petzer, one of those waiting, let out a loud cackle. They were already twelve minutes behind schedule, but no one was going to forgo being documented by the dozen or so cameras and phones snapping away from the grass.
STT grinned and snapped picture after picture, pausing to personally wave at every single guest, mouthing exaggerated greetings—“Hi, Trisha! Hi, Pam! Jane! Hi!”—like he was rushing their sorority. It was exhausting just watching him work up a sweat, pausing every few minutes to dab at his face with a handkerchief on this winter day. Anna recognized the photographer from Women’s Wear Daily, a large blond man with a colorful slim silk scarf always looped around his neck. He never lowered his camera. The Times had sent their style blogger, but Anna wasn’t sure if he was the willowy Asian man or the white guy in violet eyeshadow. More people crouched in the front, their phones all held aloft. Anna idly wondered if Max had paid any of them to be there or if they truly were all international style bloggers mixed in with legitimate fashion journalists, as he had promised.
A middle-aged strong-jawed waif in head-to-toe black with dark leather cuffs on both wrists lurked at the edge of the press. Tall, tan, and makeup-free, with long straight dark hair framing her face and hanging loosely down her back in a way that appeared natural and effortless and could not possibly be either: Vivienne Lanuit of Vogue. Anna looked around for Max, who surely should be attending to this reporter in particular. She held her large camera, which appeared to use actual film, in one tilted hand.
Anna watched Lanuit observe the women on the walkway unnoticed, far more interested in their candid moments than their posed portraits. Without sound, no sudden jerks or announcements, like a large cat stalking prey, Lanuit smoothly raised her camera and captured insincere tête-à-têtes, people feigning interest in what their friends said while covertly eyeing one another’s impossible-to-get handbags and hot-off-the-runway jumpers. She spent some time capturing every angle of the golden horses eating the sea wheat. When Anna tried to cobble together a narrative or even just a headline to go with these early images, she had a hard time spinning it all that positively. Finally, Anna spotted Max, holding a glass of fresh juice, making his way across the lawn to Lanuit.
Her turn, Pippy Petzer took a few moments to compose herself to be photographed. She wore pressed camel pants and a knee-length sable vest with a feathered fedora. Locating the embossed rose, she carefully placed one toe in front of the other, tilted her head at a calculated angle, and then . . . smiled. Sort of. It was as if the expression, so painfully artificial, had affixed itself to her face like an invisible octopus. Perhaps this was the only time Pippy Petzer even attempted a positive air: in front of a camera. She squeezed the wooden handle of a tiny Gucci bag with the effort of projecting false joy.
Then, spotting Opal in the crowd, four inches taller and several shades darker than all the other luncheon attendees, Petzer shouted for her so they could be photographed together. Opal, in a crepe de chine Prada dress covered in lips and hearts under an emerald fox jacket, was already suffering through the yapping and fawning of three opera fans. She pretended not to hear Petzer’s shrill “Opal! Opal! Opal!” until the crowd parted and there was no ignoring her cries. Petzer clasped her waist and, with her other claw, grabbed Opal’s hand. Opal’s smile was like dishwater; she managed to break free after only a few seconds, rushing straight ahead and into the embrace of Lanuit. They double kissed and shared a whispered exchange and a quick laugh, like two old fashionista friends.
Meanwhile, Bloom, in a wide-skirted dress made of grape raw silk, looped her arm through Mrs. Petzer’s, hustling her into the tent without so much as acknowledging Anna, who silently followed. Her gut churned with trepidation as she approached the reception. Shrieks—of glee? Terror?—punctuated the dull midpitched roar of an all-female gathering. The sense of foreboding she had experienced for weeks reached a peak. Was she walking into a disaster?
At first glance, it appeared not. The white silk tent stretched several stories high, a cathedral made of fabric. Ranunculus and wisteria clustered around the thick eggshell poles like fanciful moss, illuminated with lights recessed in the beams above. The sweeping curtains framed the lawn, beach, and ocean outside like a painting. Larger strategic lights bounced off the fabric above, making everyone appear more vibrant. Bow tied waiters plied the crowd with water and wine. A center table full of fresh fruit no doubt jetted in that morning from South America attracted many who loaded up their plates with nutritionist-approved melon slices, papaya chunks, and pomegranate seeds. Music from a cello and flute duo in the corner mingled with the conversations. And, most of all, everyone appeared to be having a good time, especially Mrs. Von Bizmark, who greeted each cluster of guests with verve and efficiency. Anna breathed a little easier. Fourteen minutes behind.