The back doorbell rang, and Cristina called, “Annnnaaaa!” in a singsong voice Anna had never heard from their grumpy housekeeper. Then she called again, in a more familiar screech. Then Cristina laughed, heartily, which was also rather unusual. As Anna approached the back door, their stern housekeeper looked softer—flushed and younger. And she was smiling. Very odd. Anna turned her attention to the person at the door, a tall blond man in his late fifties. Aging but attractive, with a small gut and a contagious smile.
“This is Villson, the new super. He is Polish.” She giggled like she was introducing Anna to George Clooney.
“Anna,” she said, a detail Cristina had omitted. They shook hands.
“Hello!” he said gregariously. “I’m here to take a look at the toilet upstairs. Ariadne didn’t fix the tile, right?”
“Can you do that?” Anna was skeptical of superintendents.
“I used to be a contractor,” he said, and it looked like Cristina might swoon. She sighed quietly as she handed him little cloth booties to put on to protect the Von Bizmark floors from his workman’s shoes.
“I can show you,” Cristina said, but the subtext clearly read, I will be a good wife to you. He picked up his toolbox and followed her inside, both of them immediately speaking Polish. They meandered down the hallway like two lovebirds.
It felt like a whole day had passed, and it was only eleven a.m. Anna’s uneaten breakfast sandwich sat on her desk next to the mauled croissant and her coffee, untouched and cold. Which made it easier to gulp it down. She had to do something to counter the wave of exhaustion that had suddenly washed over her. Julie would nudge the Silver Fox about the wall while Anna tried to make progress on the office’s next big event: executing an anniversary celebration so memorable that it would fully restore Anna in the eyes of her employer and stall a Von Bizmark divorce for a matter of years.
“Silver Fox coming at three,” Julie said.
Which gave them both a few hours to catch up on all the things that had to happen on an hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, and annual basis: Deposits for the next year’s tuition; payroll for the staff; insurance premiums; appraisals for new jewelry and art purchases; ticket purchases for upcoming galas, luncheons, and symposiums; thank-you notes; birthday greetings; letters to co-op boards, social club admissions committees, and school directors; and general social correspondence via letter, email, phone, and text. Restaurant reservations, theater tickets, flight arrangements, birthday gifts.
The Silver Fox arrived two minutes early with his small technical tools, including a moisture detector and syringe. The new superintendent, Villson, should meet their contractor, and it occurred to Anna suddenly that he might still be in the apartment. Upstairs, rollicking Polish banged down the hallway. Cristina sounded like an entirely different person. The tile around the toilet looked as good as new. In the place of the Magritte sketch, the interior designer had installed a small Cezanne pencil drawing, called up from storage. The bathroom was finally back to normal—nearly a month and hundreds of thousands of dollars later—and no one would ever have to jiggle the toilet handle, thank God.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Anna said, since neither one of them had noticed her standing at the door. “But the contractor is here, and I’d like him to talk to you both about the renovation.”
Downstairs, the Silver Fox and Villson were hitting it off, talking about various requisite surveys, construction schedules, necessary equipment. “Of course, I’ll have to call Renee. There’s no way she’ll agree to let us start before Labor Day,” the Silver Fox advised sagely.
“Maybe if you talk to the neighbor downstairs?” Villson suggested.
“Mrs. Forstbacher?” Anna said, incredulously.
“She’s friendly?” Villson asked.
Cristina laughed. “No!” she snorted.
“Maybe I can speak with her,” he said, smiling slyly at Cristina. Getting Mrs. Forstbacher to agree to allow construction at all was a complex feat only achieved with the participation of a half dozen lawyers. That Villson thought he would simply ask her and she would say yes was a triumph of naivete, but Anna didn’t think there was any harm in letting him learn the hard way. Cristina showed him out like she was sending him to battle.
Back in the office, Julie motioned for Anna to join her on the phone. “Max,” she mouthed.
“This is one of those good news, bad news situations,” Max said without preamble.
“OK. Bad news first.”
“I spoke to Vivienne and STT, and they’re both being very tight lipped. Frankly, I think they’re not sure what to make of the whole thing, and they don’t want to let me influence their view too much. But I did get Vivienne to send me some pictures. I’ll forward them to you now.”
Vibrant photographs filled Anna’s computer screen: three socialites in pastel suits clearly gossiping about the woman behind them—one pointing at her and another actually covering her mouth to whisper; Delilah Sellers speaking to a roomful of red-faced drunk women; a horse eating the set while a soprano silently screamed. Altogether, the effect was artsy, weird, alarming, beautiful, and kind of gross.
“Huh,” Anna said. “Did you tell them how much money we raised?”
“Yes, of course, Anna, but a story about more money is not exactly enough of a cover for the circus that luncheon turned into, ahem . . .” Max cleared his throat so vociferously that Anna suspected working on the Opera Ball had driven him to pick up smoking again. “So, OK, the photos are what they are, but they certainly got the attention of the higher-ups at Vogue. So . . . are you ready for the good news?”
“Please!” Anna said.
“I got them to agree to a photo shoot. Like, immediately.”
“Wow, Max, you did it!” Anna said, glancing at the calendar and calculating the days from the peel—at that very moment searing the fine lines and sun damage off of her employer’s face—until Mrs. Von Bizmark would be photo ready the day before the anniversary. Max argued with her until Anna, out of fresh ideas, admitted that she would need the time to heal.
“But she has to bring a few looks herself, OK? Black tie from her wardrobe—that’s what I promised.”
As if on cue, Josefina brought the garment rack from Bergdorf’s into the office with a half dozen gowns to be fitted. Anna glanced at the clock: 4:55 p.m. The buzzer rang, and Julie told the doorman to send up the seamstress. “Max, I don’t think that will be a problem,” Anna said.
Twenty minutes later, Anna was berating herself for her optimism. Mrs. Von Bizmark stood on a podium in front of the mirrors in the dining room. The Hungarian seamstress clutched her stern chin with one hand and shook her head no. The dress, a burnished blue silk satin Tom Ford with beaded embroidery at the waist, was so oversize you could fit two Mrs. Von Bizmarks inside of it. It was a surprise the dress even came that large, let alone had somehow arrived here at Mrs. Von Bizmark’s house of green juices. Over the curtain of steel-blue material, the Mrs.’s angry seared face floated like a red polka dot.
Julie, more shocked than anyone, stammered out an excuse and ran to get Mrs. Von Bizmark’s personal shopper on the phone. Meanwhile, Mrs. Von Bizmark changed into the second gown behind a screen in the dining room.