“What about Food Blast?” she said.
“You said”—he drew air quotes to emphasize—“‘The writing’s on the wall.’ Remember?”
This was true. When Adrian had first built the app, it was to help real people. Food Blast connected food stamp recipients with elaborate, upscale food marketplaces in New York that threw away leftovers. The only problem was that twentysomethings were also enjoying free delectables, and for months Adrian had been complaining about his inability to stop those kids from taking advantage. It was only a matter of time before their funders found out and shut them down. But Anna had always presumed he would go on to found another ethically motivated nonprofit technology company.
“But LVMH?” Anna said, confused.
“Yes! The world’s preeminent high-quality product conglomerate,” he added, as if reading off their website.
“I’m sorry. I just”—received the most crushing professional rejection—“was surprised. That’s all. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to say anything until after the interview. I think it went well! They want me to come in tomorrow. You know how those corporate types are.” Yes, Anna did know. Boring. And old. At least Adrian would have more to say to Lindsay’s finance friends at the next event Anna couldn’t wriggle out of.
“That’s really . . .” She chided herself: this wasn’t about her! Internally, she tried to shake off her shame for a moment. She rushed to Adrian and threw her arms around him, in part to hide the lack of a smile on her face. “Great!” she said into his starchy collar. This, the sort of stiff, tidy shirt he would be wearing every day now.
Adrian ran a disruptive hand through his hair and sighed. No doubt, this decision was hard for him too. “It’s a great place to work, you know,” he said, puzzled at her lack of enthusiasm. She knew that most people would be happy if their partner was trying to find a more lucrative job to advance their life together.
But Anna had been dragging her feet about next steps with Adrian—any next steps that would take them off the free, creative path she thought they walked hand in hand. Saving for an apartment, considering children, marriage?! All of that still loomed far off in Anna’s distant future, when they were real adults: she an accomplished artist, he a tech entrepreneur churning out socially responsible app after app. Not now, with Adrian toiling away at a luxury-goods conglomerate and Anna having nowhere to display or sell her work.
Still, she dimly realized that she was acting like a jerk. “Oh, babe!” She forced herself to reach for Adrian’s hand and say with all the sincerity she could muster, “I’m so proud of you.” No way she could tell him about Miranda Chung now. “Let’s celebrate!” she said instead.
TWO
December 28
Morning!” Julie said, breezing into the office in a vintage sable swing coat and a matching hat so wide she had to shove it under her desk along with her black leather handbag shaped like an enormous crow—surely one of her own designs.
The two had met while they were both failing the same fashion class. Anna focused on high-concept geometric garments that proved structurally impossible. Julie’s work was high quality but too weird for anyone else to wear: pants entirely made of zippers, T-shirts with enormous feathered tails. Julie still enjoyed expressing herself through her own daily fashion choices, but artistically they had both moved on to other things: Anna to oil and collage, Julie to handbags, which she sold on Etsy.
Underneath her fur, Julie revealed a red vintage power suit from the eighties with matching pumps that she slid into after putting her moon boots away. She fastened big gold swirls to her earlobes and patted her perfect blonde updo: a wig over her natural long black hair.
“She’s out. I haven’t checked the voice mail or the email, and here’s what she left us.” Anna handed over the stack of Mrs. Von Bizmark’s notes.
Did we hear from Opal yet?
Ralph Lauren, Carolina Herrera, Tom Ford
I’ll be back around 11.
PRESS RELEASE!
Where is the foundation checkbook?
Can’t sleep. We have to pick a date for the lunch.
I know! Let’s salute Opal! At the lunch?
Go over apartment with Miguel. ASAP!
Gown? Possible designers?
“I’m calling Miguel now,” Anna said. It felt good to pour herself into work and obliterate all thoughts of Miranda Chung. Anna never mentioned it to Adrian—had tried, in fact, to force herself into a state of amnesia about it. When the thought so much as crossed her mind, it dragged along endless negative implications Anna was not ready to face.
“Ugh,” Julie said, leafing through Mrs. Von Bizmark’s notes while Anna asked Barclay the doorman to send Miguel, the building’s much-disliked superintendent, up. Julie dangled the note with the designers—Ralph Lauren, Carolina Herrera, Tom Ford. “So. Dull,” she said, sighing heavily. She came to the missive about Opal and said, “Now this one, this one I have a really bad feeling about. The opera never honors anyone.”
“Sure they do. They . . .” Anna suddenly realized what Julie was getting at.
“Always honor Opal.” Julie finished Anna’s sentence.
Opal had been the creative director at the opera for a million years; it would be impossible to overstate her aesthetic gravity. Ageless. Timeless. Classic. Of the moment. Stylistically unimpeachable. It was rumored she had masterminded transformations for both Madonna and Beyoncé, as a side gig. One could only imagine how Opal, a behind-the-scenes diva of world renown, would receive the news that this year’s ball would have a new belle. Even though the Von Bizmarks’ participation guaranteed money the opera so desperately needed, the question remained: How much would this negatively impact the production itself, which would surely suffer without Opal’s wholehearted participation? The last thing Mrs. Von Bizmark wanted was for the opera to stink, which meant people would leave before the gala. The momentary picture of Mrs. Von Bizmark dressed to kill sitting at an empty table made Anna shudder.
“How much do you think this is going to cost?” she asked.
“Five million,” Julie said.
“I’ll say ten.”
“Can they really use foundation money?” These were not idle posers but rather a significant part of Anna’s job. She had to ask the right questions to the appropriate people at the correct time. “Will Opal really participate, do you think?” Julie continued her slew of questions.
There was only one way to find out.
“What can I do for you, Anna?” Richard said when Anna called.
“So I understand the Von Bizmarks are being honored at this year’s gala?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And part of that honor includes underwriting the entire production?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what is the budget?”
“Twelve point four million.”
“I see,” Anna said, imagining how creative their finance officer had been in coming up with this figure. “And will they have any input into the opera, or will Opal handle all art direction?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Hardly an encouraging response.