“It’s just . . .” Phil started to gag a little. He helplessly gestured at Pippy. As if suddenly awoken to it, Bambi could smell it too. She had become inured to the godawful stench during her long unconsciousness. Phil took a few tentative steps forward, covering his face with the crook of his elbow.
Pippy Petzer smelled like poo. And even though Pippy had never been particularly nice to Bambi outside of her dream—or to anyone, for that matter, as far as Bambi knew—her heart went out to the old battle-ax, sprawled across a lovely piece of upholstery that would now need to be replaced. Sure, what Bambi had said at the luncheon was embarrassing. She blushed even before the memory had fully formed in her mind and she could close it out. Ugh. But somehow Pippy, here, exposed like this, wrought compassion from Bambi. Plus, her sympathies for this society doyenne made Bambi feel much better about herself and her unconventional public address.
“Just get the car, will you?” Bambi asked Phil, who began to retch again, which Bambi thought a tad dramatic. She dispatched him to get a stretcher and the paramedics too; Pippy could not just linger forever in their pool house. Surely her people would care for her.
Bambi, feeling suddenly much, much better, came to her feet. Modern medicine was such a glorious marvel! The luncheon receded into less and less embarrassing territory; maybe it had played as a joke? Not been so bad! Bambi stood eye to IV bag and read the ingredients: saline, vitamins, a bunch of other stuff, and something called midazolam, which Bambi suspected played a large part in the incredible serenity with which she viewed everything that had happened—ever in her entire life and perhaps everything that ever would happen. Stiff, exhausted, but definitely on the mend, she minced over to Pippy, rolling her IV cart and its magical potion with her.
“Pippy,” she said quietly, standing over her. “Pippy.”
Her head rolled against the back of the couch, her mouth halfway open. All Pippy’s makeup had shifted a half inch from its proper place, a macabre smear. Hair pieces dangled in spots. Her eyes, a mixture of grays and reds under a glassy sheen, blinked open and moved in Bambi’s direction. She moaned lightly.
“Pippy, I want you to know this will stay between us.” Bambi tried to impart this communiqué with all the seriousness and dignity with which it was intended. “OK, dear?” she said, patting the inside of her outthrust and exposed arm.
Pippy nodded ever so slightly, just a subtle rolling of her head along the back of the poor couch.
Getting home was a pleasant blur due to the hospital-grade antianxiety medication in Bambi’s blood. She wasn’t worried about Peter and what he might say, didn’t fret over the press or the ball or the school or . . . anything. They went out for steak, which Bambi did not mind in the slightest since she was the furthest thing from hungry. She sipped her unusually tasty bordeaux—Peter really did know his way around a wine list. When the steak came, Bambi helped herself to a few slices, which were more delicious than her distant recollections of red meat. She talked a lot about the lunch, omitting her gaffe and painting the whole event a triumph. Peter remained a neutral listener, though he did yawn once. Twice. Perhaps she was a touch monologue-y. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline when Bambi ordered ice cream, which was much sweeter than she remembered but still a very nice feeling on the tongue. She scooped some into Peter’s mouth, and he smiled.
Which made the next morning so, so . . . upsetting. Peter woke Bambi up early, throwing newspapers on her sleeping body. How rude! “Bambi!” he snapped. “Bambi, wake up!” She lifted her satin eye mask and blinked at him. “Bambi, it’s almost ten, for God’s sake.” Goodness, how long had she slept? It had been the most thorough rest. She didn’t remember a thing after the . . . ice cream. Dear God, had she eaten ice cream?
“Is everything all right, dear?” she asked.
“No, it’s not! Look at these articles!”
She didn’t have her glasses on, so they were a mass of newsprint, nothing more. “But . . . are they positive?” She picked one up and tried to find the arm’s distance where she could see the print. No luck. She looked at Peter again. “Anything nice about me?”
“Bambi, you flew a hundred people to the Hamptons, and it’s in every major paper somehow. How did that happen?” Bambi thought of Max and smiled to herself. It was so important to have good people. “It’s not funny! Bambi! We have security and money issues. This is not helping! Do you think the mayor likes us more or less now? And the Petzers are suing us!” He let this sink in, Bambi’s face falling. “I know you aren’t used to hearing these exact words in this order, but how much did this whole thing cost?” Bambi winced. “I noticed you put the whole opera on a credit card, even though I told you not to.”
Anna did it! Bambi wanted to say, but that would sound childish. She had already gleefully used several of the resulting gift cards.
Peter collected the papers again before she could even read any of them. “I was going to come home, but now I don’t want to,” he said. “I’ll be at the Peninsula.”
This seemed so unfair. Hadn’t they had a nice time on their impromptu date night, or was that just the drugs talking? How could Bambi be sure? She chased him down the stairs, surprised to find that she was still in her cotton pants and pressed shirt from the night before. “Peter, Peter . . . wait!”
THIRTEEN
February 11
Anna and Julie were so on their game they even remembered to grab a coffee for Brian on their way to the Von Bizmarks’, which he discreetly slipped under the doorman’s podium. “You two look chipper today,” he said. They were physically exhausted but emotionally elated.
Mere hours after the lunch, Max’s handpicked bloggers with followings big and small had started posting. Opinions and stories about the luncheon ranged from mildly satirical to incandescently positive. The whole thing was just so over the top that it was hard for these professional aesthetes not to fawn. There were, of course, many pictures of the golden horses masticating thousands of dollars in heirloom sea wheat, whatever that was. Since none of these online-only publications had been allowed into the luncheon itself, zero information had yet trickled out about the shenanigans inside.
Women’s Wear Daily online went with straight fashion, making only upbeat allusions to the many idiosyncrasies of the day—“an unusually good time” with “many unexpected moments”—but mostly Scarf Guy covered the various designers and styles. A picture of Julie’s embroidered parrots made its way into the story.
Then, just before midnight, Max had issued the press release about the money raised for the school, and all the major papers had jumped on the story. They had a little dirt from first-person accounts, but Mrs. Von Bizmark’s bizarre confessional had been eclipsed by overall intoxication and extraordinary fundraising. Anna felt an anticipatory tingling: maybe today would be the right time to ask for a raise.
The elevator door dinged and opened, depositing them in the anteroom behind the foyer doors, which remained closed all the time now. Anna pointed wordlessly at Mr. Von Bizmark’s briefcase, leaning against the wall. Maybe the Von Bizmarks had had a romantic evening at home together? For a second, it was like everything was perfect.