“Hey,” Bloom said, matching her tone without averting her gaze from the workmen. “Careful with that! Careful!” she shouted pointlessly, an effort to blow Anna off.
“Bloom!” Anna demanded her attention. “Did you know we were serving the wrong wine?” Anna half shouted. Bloom finally looked at her.
“Were we?” she said with exaggerated surprise, a hand dramatically positioned at her breastbone. “I had no idea!” She took a small step closer to Anna, that hand reaching out to Anna’s shoulder, pulling her closer. “And if I did know,” Bloom rasped into Anna’s ear, “I wouldn’t say anything because we must stay under budget.” It was like a tiny fist of iron punched Anna in the solar plexus with each word. Anna, run down, exhausted, traumatized, and confused, felt tears building.
Just then, Phil ran out of the house toward them, green T-shirt soaked through with sweat, which gave Anna a chance to swipe the tears away. “I fixed the heating!” he announced, triumphantly, grinning ear to ear with pride, utterly oblivious to how little it mattered anymore. The guests had barely felt the temperature in the dining room because they were all so drunk. Or maybe, Anna realized, they were all so drunk because of the heat. Phil stopped a few feet away, panting a little, hands on his hips. “I stink. So . . . how’d it go today?”
“Great!” Bloom said, and with that, she excused herself to scream at a worker attacking the silk tent with too much gusto.
“You know, I’m not sure,” Anna said, looking past him at the blinking lights of the ambulance. “Can you show the paramedics to the pool house?” Before he could ask, Anna said, “I don’t have time to explain.”
Anna rushed onto the final waiting helicopter with the performers, Sellers, and Julie. A strange silence fell over everyone. Anna didn’t know what to make of the day. Sellers, her impermeable shell pierced by Mrs. Von Bizmark’s confessional, shook her head a little, trying to process it all as they lifted up over the Castle.
Julie quietly got out her iPad to total the credit card contributions. Sellers pulled up the calculator on her phone and the envelope still tucked discreetly in her purse and started tallying the checks. Periodically, she heaved quietly or said, “My goodness!” Slowly, Sellers slipped into a state of shock. Anna looked over her shoulder to make out a check written for $50,000.
“Four hundred and twenty thousand dollars in credit card payments,” Julie finally said.
“Holy shit,” one of the sopranos said.
“Seven hundred and thirteen thousand dollars in checks,” Sellers said, disbelievingly. “That can’t be right.” She flipped through the checks again. “But it is. And I didn’t even count this . . .” She held out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, rolled up and rubber banded. It had to be several thousand dollars in cash.
Sweet relief flooded Anna’s frayed psyche. Even if everything was all messed up, even if the next day a raft of terrible publicity and embarrassing stories would cost Anna her job, she could at least feel good about this one thing. Maybe somehow, everything would work out for Ilana and all her classmates.
“I gotta be honest: I think the wine mistake paid off,” Julie said.
“Big-time,” Sellers said. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, but whatever it was, it worked.”
“See? Sometimes this crowd can be very helpful,” Anna said.
“That may be true,” Sellers mused. “But they are certainly not like everyone else.”
That night, Julie and Anna drank beers in Julie’s tiny kitchen at a table so small it was nearly child size. “I thought I’d have it all figured out by now, Jules.” Anna sneezed into a tissue.
“But you do!” Julie said. “What’s the problem?” Anna turned her red and weepy eyes on Julie. She sniffled a little and scratched at a fresh patch of hives on her inner arm. “OK, so there’s the Adrian thing. That’s an issue . . . ,” Julie said, going to the fridge for another beer for Anna to press against her rash. “But is it really? Like, a real issue?” she said.
Anna sighed heavily before answering. “I can’t seem to make up my mind. I don’t have time to think about it now.”
“Well, it seems like the sort of thing you should make time for.”
“I’ll deal with it after the ball.”
“Yes, that’s something people say. That’s totally normal.”
TWELVE
Still February 10
So glad you came!” Bambi exclaimed to Prince Valdobianno, who inexplicably wore tails and a bright-red sash across his chest. Like a fairy tale, Bambi thought, even if it went against dress code. Never mind. He bent over at the waist to kiss her hand, and she sighed with pleasure. All around her, the candlelit faces of her friends and supporters glowed happily, warmly in her direction. It was the Opera Ball at last, and it was a tremendous, huge, massive success. Looking at the crowd, Bambi counted everyone she had ever known, it seemed, and was that . . . Meryl Streep? Sitting next to her Swiss boarding school headmistress? That Max was a magician!
As the prince receded, Pippy Petzer sprung up in his place, next in a long line waiting to greet her. Goodness, it was hard work being the honoree; she had to be gracious to each one. Especially Pippy, who wore a never-before-seen genuine smile. Won over, perhaps? Her baby-pink Chanel suit and pillbox hat underlined Bambi’s impression that Pippy had come in kindness. She gushed, “Bambi, my darling, congratulations! I brought you a present.” An oversize leather embossed jewelry box materialized, and Bambi just knew, instinctively, what was inside. She opened it to find the lariat—a gorgeous piece designed by none other than Jeanne Toussaint herself and worn by . . .
“Stable now. Should be feeling much better soon.” A strange voice was talking just to her right and too loudly. Bambi jerked her head to see and lurched awake in the pool house. And who was that sprawled just across from her, an IV bag jutting from her—from both of their arms? Oh my Lord, Pippy Petzer!
Bambi suddenly remembered everything. Oh. No. Why had she said that? About being Jewish? It had felt so critical to get those words out into the world at that moment, and yet . . . it had been the alcohol talking. Oh dear. She felt like she might vomit again—oh dear Lord, the bile rising, how awful. But it wasn’t physical. Bambi was, for a searing flash, full of shame. And it was all Anna’s fault.
“But can we transport her?” Phil said to whomever was outside. From the flashing lights and the IV situation, Bambi deduced paramedics.
“To where? She should rest.” Where was she going? Who were they talking about?
“The city. Is it safe to send her in a car, or do we need the ambulance?” They must be talking about Pippy. No way was Bambi going to take an ambulance to her apartment building. What would people say? Someone could snap a photograph!
“Obviously an ambulance would be safer. Is there someone there to receive her?”
“I’ll call Mr. Von Bizmark.”
“Nooooo!” Bambi croaked. Call Peter and say what exactly? He’d be angry enough as it was, depending on whether media coverage of the lunch somehow reached him from the faraway land of fashion journalism and then how negative the articles turned out to be. He hated to be the subject of strangers’ attention as much as Bambi craved it. She cleared her throat and said with more authority, “Phil, absolutely not. Come in here, please!” He appeared but stayed by the open door, lingering a good fifteen feet away. “What are you doing, standing over there? Why is everyone outside?”