“I do?” Lindsay said. “How can you say that?”
“What am I doing? Who am I?”
“Aw, geez, A, you have to know it in your heart the way we all do.” When she said we all, Anna felt so . . . grateful.
“I just used to think someday, I’d, like, make it and quit my job and become something else. Not just an assistant . . .”
“You’re an artist too!”
“But am I?”
“Anna, you have the perfect day job. You make a great living. Great perks! And you still have time for painting,” Lindsay said. Anna had thought this about herself, or tried to, but hearing it from her sister’s mouth made the words more digestible. “And I get it: that it’s hard. But if you doubt yourself, it’s not coming from me. Or Adrian. Or Adrian’s new job.” Lindsay looked at her sister pointedly.
“What?” Anna said.
“It’s coming from you! You always put too much pressure on yourself.”
Maybe she had been wrong about Lindsay. What she said made so much sense. It was like a strange film where suddenly all the negative thoughts she had ascribed to others—Lindsay, Adrian—replayed in her mind in her own voice. Maybe if Anna believed she was an artist herself, she would not feel so under siege by other people’s perceived slights. “So you don’t think I’m a loser?” Anna asked.
“You’ll always be my hero, A,” Lindsay said.
“Hey, Linds, I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk.”
“What do you mean ‘if’?”
“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”
“I mean you’re kind of jerky. You’re rarely wrong, and when you are, it takes you forever to realize it. That’s part of your charm.”
“Huh,” Anna said, taking this in. Made sense.
“And,” Lindsay continued, seeing an opening, “I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but you are just the teensiest bit self-involved.” Lindsay’s face scrunched up with the effort of delivering this message to her older sister. While she had never exactly said it that way before, the concept felt familiar. Anna realized with a lurch that Adrian had been right: Anna had asked about his new job approximately never. But it was too soon for her to face up to it.
FIFTEEN
Morning of March 8
This is so much more complicated than I could have imagined,” Julie said, eyeing the scattered place cards arrayed on the bistro table over Anna’s and Max’s shoulders. The Von Bizmarks’ four boxes at the opera and sixteen tables at the ball provided a great opportunity to demonstrate the gregariousness, sophistication, beauty, and social rank of their friends and associates. A card for each sparkling guest bore their name and a tiny headshot. Max continuously distributed them, gathered them up, and arranged them again, like mah-jongg tiles.
There was an almost-lost art to seating that could elevate an evening from merely technically perfect (which was expected) to unforgettable. Max aimed for that alchemy where common interests, personal aesthetics, and prescription medications all vibed, and everyone left saying in unanimity about themselves and the others: “Those Von Bizmarks have the most interesting friends. I love their events!”
Max shuffled the place cards in his hand. “All the ones with the green checks are confirmed?”
“Yes, Max.” Anna sighed and smiled, counting the seconds until he said . . .
“Only half?”
“So far,” Anna said, and Max sighed dramatically. “The orchids go out today.” These plants had begun flowing in days ago from every florist in the city, of every shade, shape, and size, ranging from jumbo to rainforest, each meant to heartily congratulate the Von Bizmarks on the honor about to be bestowed upon them. Cristina plucked the best buds for placement throughout the apartment, until each room, bathroom, and oversize closet housed at least one showy swoop of elephant-eared blossoms. Though the Von Bizmarks did not like orchids—“So boring,” Mrs. Von Bizmark yawned whenever she passed one—there were simply too many of them to keep in the office or give away. Plus these particular flowers reminded everyone of the big event to come, lending a feeling of momentousness to the otherwise museum-like residence. Cristina would quietly discard them all the morning after the ball.
The two dozen B-list flowers unworthy of apartment placement were left in cellophane and awaited rerouting to VIP Opera Ball guests with a “handwritten” note from Mrs. Von Bizmark:
Can’t wait to see you at the opera!
XO
Kissy
“Do you really think that’s adequate?” Max asked, one perfectly plucked and trimmed eyebrow arched. “I can have my assistant call everyone.”
Anna smiled into his negativity. “Or we could hire snipers to dart the guests and drag them to the ball by their ankles.” Max ignored her.
Cristina brought yet another orchid, at least three feet high, two enormous stalks sprouting unusual neon-orange blossoms, and set it down on a distant windowsill. She hummed a nameless Polish tune and unnecessarily fussed with the ribbons. There was an aggressive quality to her happiness that grated on Anna’s melancholy; for a fleeting moment, she wished Cristina would go back to being a miserable bitch.
Max pondered his newest seating arrangement. “We don’t have the most important person,” he said, doing jazz hands over the place cards like an incantation. The problem, front and center, was the first row of the Von Bizmark box. They needed two more people, the seats of honor. Now that the seats were no longer reserved for the Petzers, there seemed to be no one of equivalent caliber and quality. Another missing element.
“The mayor still hasn’t confirmed,” Anna said.
“I vote for Prince Montepulciano,” Julie suggested.
“Valdobianno,” Anna said. “He definitely called to accept, right?”
“Well . . . ,” Julie started, her hesitation instantly calling Max’s attention to her. “It sounded like he was calling from a mobile phone on a yacht in the middle of the ocean on Mars, but I’m pretty sure he said yes.”
“He’s too unreliable, even if he is gorgeous,” Max concluded. “And besides, who will he bring? Impossible to predict.”
“Martha Miller?”
“Her husband’s such a bore. He’ll probably sleep through half of it. No Petzers, huh?” Max asked. Anna had declined to share the incriminating video, knowing that Max could never keep it a secret for long.
“No Petzers. But Max, this is New York! Surely there’s someone else?”
Max gathered up the cards and flipped through them: a lot of scions and socialites, a few luminaries, a few formerly famous faces, no real showstoppers. He muttered an ongoing commentary. “Her and her dresses. It’s always big ball gowns. Too much fabric.” “This one and the arm candy. Younger than his actual grandchild. Tsk.” “Jail time. Tax evasion.” “Too loud.” “Too dowdy.” “Too . . . too.”
The back doorbell rang, and Cristina answered it with her usual greeting followed immediately with a hearty “So good to see you!” and then a full minute of rapid Polish in which Cristina grew louder and louder, finally saying, “No! No! No!” several times, screeching in disbelief. The racket was unignorable. Anna, Julie, and Max paused, facing the door in expectation, but all they heard was Polish and giggling.