“You here to tell me how to do this too?” Cristina asked.
Anna threw up her hands. What a bunch of prima donnas, she thought, accepting that there was nothing else she could do but let the evening unfold. When Anna and Julie passed the living room on their way out, all decked out for the big night, she found Cristina lighting the last of about fifty candles, tall and scattered in silver holders throughout the space like a fairy glen, all pink blossoms and flickering light. The flowers almost totally camouflaged the damaged wall, which the Silver Fox had draped. It was so dramatic it appeared as if the whole thing—the drop cloths, the empty space where the couch had been—had been done intentionally to prepare the room for the most dazzling anniversary imaginable.
Cristina filled the silver ice bucket and deposited the magnum with an oversize linen napkin draped over the top. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Beautiful job, Cristina.”
Julie greeted the pianist at the door and handed over the earplugs and payment for the evening, plus a 25 percent gratuity. They could do no more. Let the evening begin.
SIXTEEN
Evening of March 8
As she climbed the stairs to get ready for an annoyingly unmissable evening out, Bambi wondered what the devil had gotten into everyone. She had quietly waited for someone to say Happy anniversary! all day. Could she have volunteered the information? Reminded everyone with a gentle, You know what? Today is our anniversary! Perhaps! But that sounded so thirsty. So . . . unsatisfying.
The glam squad had only eighty minutes to do the glossy waves of hair she wanted to match her new blue chiffon gown taken from the rack at the Vogue shoot—a preseason Naeem Khan steal for 40 percent off! The team of four worked feverishly, two drying her hair with round brushes, one applying a fan to her nail extensions, and one blending her contouring foundation. They had only until 7:20 p.m., a time Anna had printed out in hideous large font and circled in red Sharpie, including underneath, Latecomers will not be seated, double underlined, taping this monstrosity to one of the bulbs surrounding her makeup mirror. Occasionally her staff treated Bambi as if she had never done anything for herself, which was absolutely, 1,000 percent untrue.
She was just busy racing from one thing to the next, go, go, go. How many places had she been today? How many people had she smiled at and (tried to) talk to? And her lunch date with Fawnee had been such a dreadful bore. That woman’s entire life was given over to pleasure. She had no hobbies, no causes, hadn’t seen or done anything interesting whatsoever. But she had taken a table at the gala, so lunch must be sat through.
At least Opal was excited about the production; she’d clucked over the wardrobe of last-season pieces Bambi had provided from her own and Peter’s closet for the show. The set, built to replicate Coolwater, would of course be the perfect backdrop to the drama of the opera and the garments . . . all of it fully aesthetically Von Bizmark. Just as Bambi preferred. That she had Opal’s stamp of approval meant more to her, however, than she cared to admit to herself.
Bambi hurried down the steps. Peter, sipping a cognac already, sat in the foyer waiting for her and listening, oddly, to piano music on the speakers. When had they installed speakers in the foyer? He stood to greet her, reaching a hand for her grandly. It felt rather dreamy, almost too fabulous. What is going on?
“Let’s go, sweetheart . . . we’re late . . . ,” she said.
“Bambi,” Peter said, pointing her in the direction of the living room instead of the elevator, which was strange, all very strange, except—cherry blossoms! Everywhere! Perhaps there were even entire forests inside her living room, and candles, and it looked so beautiful inside, and Peter was holding her hand.
“Oh my! A pianist!” Bambi remarked, trying not to ask the next question, thinking she should just not even say anything, but then she couldn’t help herself because she knew she would not be able to relax if she did not confirm. “Is he—”
“Wearing earplugs!” Peter said, impressing his wife immeasurably with this small gesture of thoughtfulness. He guided her to the silver ice bucket and showed her the vintage like a sommelier.
“Awww!” she said. “A magnum! Peter, my word!”
“Nothing but the best for my love,” Peter said, pouring the champagne into two waiting flutes. Bambi giggled like a teenager.
Chef delivered the seafood tray to the dining room, a pizza-size platter of crushed ice covered by the fruits of the sea: a dozen different kinds of oysters, clams, mussels, crab claws, lobster, red shrimp, purple prawns . . . it went on and on, all delicious fat-free, low-calorie delights Bambi could gorge on. Chef clasped her hands. “You should know that all the food tonight was flown in from Puglia.” Of course, she heard the words, but Bambi could not be certain she’d understood what Chef had said. “Just off the coast of Fasano, about”—Chef studied her watch—“ten hours ago? My friend Paolo got it for you personally.”
“You’re kidding!” Bambi was astonished; her hand flew to her chest. Peter reached for Bambi’s elbow to steady her and prevent her from taking a step back and into the silver Jeff Koons balloon dog behind her.
“Are you OK?” he asked, pulling her closer to make sure she didn’t fall.
This small gesture was perhaps the softest thing that had happened between her and her husband in about two years, and a genuine smile brightened Bambi’s entire countenance. She was close enough to smell the custom fragrance she had made for him in Paris, which he never wore even after Bambi had told him she found it irresistible. Bambi did not relinquish his arm as he walked her to the table.
Chef served each of them a selection of seafood and then backed out of the room to prepare her famous homemade gnocchi that Bambi had forbidden. Chef served her only three, drizzled in truffle oil, and Bambi sighed with delight. Chef’s gnocchi were the lightest, most flavorful, most velvety little potato packages the world had known. Bambi allowed herself two whole dumplings, the first carbs she’d had since that crazy ice cream. The sounds she made while eating these tender pillows were almost sexual, and soon she found Peter’s hand on her knee under the table. Bambi felt like a rickety engine sputtering to life again.
Chef served a platter of wood-fired vegetables: squash, zucchini, tomato, endive, radicchio, onion, garlic, leeks, and eggplant, drizzling olive oil she poured from a repurposed wine bottle. Then she fileted a whole John Dory for them. “Taken from the Mediterranean this morning.” She deboned the fish with two silver spoons in three quick strokes. The two servings barely made a dent in the large animal. She turned to the vegetables, slicing, arranging . . . making two exactly perfect plates. “The vegetables I picked myself. Olive oil from a friend in Polignano a Mare. All cooked on Sardinian wood.”
“This is the same as that first night in Portofino!” Bambi gushed; they’d spent four weeks on the Italian Riviera for their honeymoon. She was brought back to their nascent marriage, how they had sunned themselves and slept outrageously and drank too much, and it all seemed so vivid. That aliveness came into their present moment in full flush, like magic, through the tastes of the food. “How did you remember?”
“I have people,” he said and winked at Chef.
By the time the main course was in front of them, neither cared to eat as they both savored the unexpected beauty of a moment when neither of them harbored any ill will toward the other. The pianist played “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” their wedding song. Bambi smiled at Peter, and he smiled back. They were, in fact, having the best time. The music seemed to be growing louder and louder.