“Know what? Know what?” Max croaked behind her.
“Please do!” Avi said into her ear.
“That was a joke,” Anna said, and Avi hung up on her.
“It’s not so bad,” Julie said about the article before the phone could ring again. She read Anna an excerpt: “‘When taken in concert with the money raised at—and the resources expended on—this particular event, well, it was just positively intoxicating. No wonder Kissy spoke from the heart! No wonder everyone drank a little too much! The mansion! The ocean! The golden horses . . . only Kissy could pull it all off with such grace.’”
“Sounds good to me,” Anna said. “Right, Max?” Max said nothing, tapping out a text. “The pictures are great. He barely mentioned Felix Mercurion, saying she took it like a champion when they carted out all that art. And he gave her credit for saving a whole school,” Anna said.
Still Max had not looked up, nor did he bid them farewell as he walked out while answering a call from his assistant. “Hold the fort—I’m coming back now,” he barked into his phone.
Emails flowed in from Mrs. Von Bizmark’s circle, particularly those who had attended the luncheon, avid STT readers all. Congratulations were in order! The article was a “victory,” a “salute,” a “toast” to KVB. These women took any opportunity, no matter how insignificant or unearned, to praise one another, and this feature in the New York Times of wealth was no small thing. In twenty minutes, Kissy Von Bizmark’s social capital had appreciated significantly. And the Vogue article wasn’t even out yet. The phone rang constantly.
“Hi, Anna, I know I’m not supposed to be bothering you at work,” Vera said, surprising Anna out of her rhythm of taking down congratulatory phone messages, “but I could really use some help. And don’t just say no right away this time, OK?”
Of course, this was the perfect time for Anna to field some outlandish request from the most manipulative Von Bizmark child. “Try me,” Anna said.
“So I’m supposed to do a presentation on my hometown, and you know my favorite thing about New York, right?”
“Your family lives here?”
“Other than that.”
“World-class cultural institutions.”
“Bagels,” Vera said. “It’s bagels.”
“Deep,” Anna said.
“Hey!”
“Go on.”
“I was thinking, you send the jet tomorrow morning, I run down to the city and pick up bagels. For my class.” Anna said nothing. This teenager called upon the jet like she was asking for a lift to the mall. “As part of my presentation.”
“I see. Any friends coming for the joyride?”
“Maybe. What difference does that make?”
“How about this, Vera? I overnight you a few dozen bagels plus all your favorite things from Zabar’s, and you can host a New York brunch for all your friends . . . I mean, for your presentation.” Anna emphasized the last two words.
“That’s right! It’s for class!”
“OK, OK.”
“Thanks, Anna!” Vera gushed. Maybe this had been her goal all along; she was wily, that one.
“And remember,” Anna said, already jotting off an email to their account rep at Zabar’s, “don’t mention the—”
“Anniversary! Yeah, yeah, I got your email, letter, text, and voice mail. I’m not as stupid as Chester, you know.”
In fairness, on all the other anniversaries of the Von Bizmarks’ married life, every single human Mrs. Von Bizmark encountered in their apartment building, from the maids to the doormen, and most certainly Anna and Julie, would immediately acknowledge this hallowed date, the birth of all the Von Bizmark enterprises. But to enhance an evening full of surprises, Anna had instructed no one to speak that key phrase, pretending the anniversary had been lost in all the opera planning.
Distraught, Mrs. Von Bizmark cast her eye around the office, over the sea of orchids that continued to swell. Then she loomed over the calendar, still as a statue, three fingers gracefully pressed to the day. Any other time, this alone would have prodded Anna, Julie, or even Cristina to say something, but the room was as quiet as a tomb.
Finally, Mrs. Von Bizmark went to her desk, scrutinizing its familiar clutter, undisturbed by card or gift. Eventually sitting, Mrs. Von Bizmark listlessly scrolled through the organized, sorted, and prioritized emails on her computer. Since Anna and Julie screened all correspondence, they had already siphoned away the tens of Happy Anniversary! greetings from every friend, staff member, former classmate, social climber, and vendor and had carefully paused her inbox so no new messages would flow in. Perhaps for the first time ever, Mrs. Von Bizmark opened each and every email, double-clicking her mouse more and more aggressively as she found nothing with those essential words. Particularly not from Mr. Von Bizmark.
Anna knew this would be a critical, difficult few minutes before Mrs. Von Bizmark was out for lunch with a friend, on to a meeting with Opal, to the gym for her final session of “boot camp” before the big day, then a facial with Ping downtown, with a little shopping in between. They had purposely stacked this day full of activities in appealing retail neighborhoods where Mrs. Von Bizmark could self-soothe. But as long as she sat there, in the office, failing to receive the attention she felt she deserved, Mrs. Von Bizmark was a grenade about to explode in someone’s face.
“Should I call the car?” Anna asked.
“Fawnee is always late,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said, sorting random bits of paper on her desk as if the answer to some unknown but critical question might be found amid the calling cards and thank-you notes. “Cristina!” she suddenly called sharply, which signaled Anna to hop on the intercom and summon the housekeeper in a fashion she could actually hear. The ladies disappeared into the darkest closets and bathrooms adjoining the master suite (where the majority of their employers’ attention found its focus) for the bulk of the morning. As the seconds ticked by—three, four, five—Mrs. Von Bizmark grew impatient. “Did you tell her that I had the gym today?” she asked Anna crisply.
“Of course.”
“Because I want to take my bag with me in the car, and I don’t see it anywhere.” Already huffy, she could get worked up into a lather for any reason, no matter how minor. Cristina appeared, keenly aware of the Mrs.’s fragile emotional state, with the desired monogrammed Goyard miniduffel in hand.
“Your bag is right here, Mrs. Von Bizmark. I pack two extra waters like you like and the new Lululemon that looks so good on you.” Cristina deposited the hot-potato bag and, without waiting for a thank-you, scurried back to the safe, faraway upstairs. In being perfect, Cristina had deprived Mrs. Von Bizmark of the opportunity to chastise someone. Now she was doubly annoyed.
“I’ll just call the car now!” Julie said brightly, picking up the phone.
Lost in a desultory haze, Mrs. Von Bizmark said nothing for a few minutes, then suddenly snapped, “Where are we on the seating?”
“I’ll call Max and ask if he’s ready to present.”
“Why do I need to follow up with you on things like this, Anna?”
“It’s certainly on my radar!”