Anna fell upon the bag much like the Von Bizmarks had greeted their lost daughter. “You left it in the elevator. Joe found it but figured it wasn’t right to bother you.” Anna already had the check in her hand. She popped open the box, and there was the lariat. Sautoir. Everything present and accounted for. Cristina delivered the necklace while Julie hopped on the phone with their Bergdorf’s shopper, who raced through the store on a cordless headset pulling dresses in sizes 6 to 16.
That done, Anna and Julie enjoyed a few minutes of downtime. The Von Bizmarks were finishing glam and getting dressed upstairs. Soon it would be Anna’s and Julie’s turn for hair and makeup. The day had been almost too much to contemplate.
“Hey, Jules.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re all getting a raise.” Any other time, this would have been of significant interest, but it was as if both of them were momentarily drained, their scraps of energy reserved for an evening ahead that neither of them had planned on. They were going to the ball.
“That’s great, Anna. Thanks.”
“Yeah. Anytime.”
EIGHTEEN
Evening of March 9
The horde of reporters and camera people crowding the plaza at Lincoln Center hungered for Kissy Von Bizmark most of all. After the scandals, preparties, press, images, allusions, and salaciousness; after that most sensational headline, “I Am a Jewess”; after Mrs. Von Bizmark herself had mysteriously blown off the entire afternoon junket, speculation ran amok as to the “true story” behind it all. Each reporter sought that golden quote to headline their own article. Each photographer wished for the front of their periodical, the home page spot, the admiration of their employer. The less flattering, more revealing, most “real” image of Kissy Von Bizmark, the much talked-about star of the evening, the better.
Max poured this information into Mrs. Von Bizmark’s ear in a steady stream as the stretch limousine (an unusual conveyance but required for so many people) inched along with the preevent traffic. Mrs. Von Bizmark took it all in, serene in a simple black Armani gown that highlighted not only her perfectly prepared flesh and hair but the sautoir itself, which glimmered and blinked, flirting like a tiny celebrity nestled in her décolletage. Mrs. Von Bizmark held Peony’s hand; the child, dazed and still processing how all these strokes of unexpected good fortune had fallen upon her, sat in between her parents, a rare event indeed. Mr. Von Bizmark looked out the window, studiously avoiding eye contact. He had only occasionally ridden in a car with his own daughter, let alone been in public with the entire residential staff, each and every one in an evening dress.
Josefina and Alicia had both selected gem-toned, glittering gowns. Little pearls stitched along the high neck of Alicia’s dress offset the sheer bodice. Josefina had chosen a diaphanous jade chiffon with cap sleeves. Cristina had picked something in her favorite violet and had asked the makeup artist to skillfully render a matching shade of eyeliner. She kept her glasses tucked away, not wanting to obscure the effect.
Nanny appeared the least comfortable out of her nurse’s uniform. She tugged repetitively at her simple black crepe rectangle of a dress. She’d declined makeup, tied her hair up in a ponytail, and, deprived of her usual seat next to the youngest Von Bizmark, looked a little lost and possibly traumatized by the day’s events.
Anna straightened and resmoothed the voluminous folds of her silk gown, a flouncy, jammy, bold fuchsia, strapless with a flattering corset sewn in and two deep pockets in the skirt for her lipstick. Under Julie’s direction, the makeup artist had meticulously painted on matching lips and slipped her the tube to take with her for touch-ups. Her hair was up in a perfectly frayed topknot.
Julie had, of course, gone fully, well, Julie, with a deep-pink floral Giambattista Valli. The dramatic puffy collar framed the low V-neck. A bright-green matching cape flowed from tiny hooks at her shoulders. The makeup artist had picked up on these hues, executing at Julie’s direction green lips and pink eyes. Her hair was a tousled, tumbling, fake-flower-filled loose braid. She looked like an English garden on acid.
Max hadn’t stopped talking the entire ride. When they finally pulled up at the curb, swarms of regular people—not just press—crowded the plaza. Under a tent, the corral of reporters and photographers lined the red carpet with small crowded bleachers behind them. Mrs. Von Bizmark looked eagerly past Max. It was all so much more attention than even she had thought possible.
“So you’re going to be what?” Max coached.
“Succinct, coy, and positive,” Mrs. Von Bizmark murmured, rote.
Once a white-gloved attendant had opened the door, the car filled with the noise of the crowd, so loud it was a physical sensation. They rushed blindly to the press area, Nanny hustling like she was the scandal-embroiled celebrity, Mrs. Von Bizmark waving royally in tidy little wrist twists. People in the crowd yelled, “Kissy!” like she was famous. Perhaps she was? And she loved it. Even Peony was impressed and delighted that her mother held her hand the entire time.
“Everyone!” Max commanded from the step and repeat, deftly lining the staff and Von Bizmarks up for a group photo with Peony in the middle. Flashes exploded. It felt a little otherworldly to everyone except Mrs. Von Bizmark, whom Anna suspected would happily pose for the cameras every evening. She smiled naturally, arranging her face and body in the most flattering of angles. Then it was time to face the reporters waiting in a row two dozen media outlets long.
“I’ll be with you the whole way,” Max said soothingly to Mrs. Von Bizmark before turning and snapping, “Anna!” just as she was going to slip inside with the rest of the staff. Visions of a scotch and soda melted away. “Stay with me!” he hissed.
Mrs. Von Bizmark’s conversations became monotonous droning in the background while Anna instead focused on a steady stream of VIPs, ticking them off her mental guest list. First, there was the mayor and his wife, greeted by the public in the plaza with both cheers and jeers. Lindsay arrived, radiant in a form-fitting cerulean dress. Her husband, Jack, beamed at her proudly. Principal Sellers stepped out of a taxi, ignored the step and repeat, and headed straight inside.
“Felix Mercurion was convicted today and faces twenty years in prison. What do you have to say to him?” Anna snapped to attention. The Daily News.
“Not much, actually. I don’t really know him. What I do know is that we are here tonight for two of New York City’s great institutions: the opera and an artistically focused public school. And we are introducing the work of a new artist as well . . .”
At this opportunity to change the subject, Max grabbed Anna by the arm and put her in front of the reporter. “Here she is,” he added quickly before extracting Mrs. Von Bizmark.
The reporter, a brunette bob in a beat-up brown velvet jacket, took a moment to get a mint out of her pocket, eyeing Anna blandly. “So you’re the artist?” she said.
“Yup,” Anna offered, distracted by Martha Miller, who had, thank God, brought her husband. The crowd outside erupted, and she waved back, smiling and taking selfies with fans. She walked slowly to bathe in the attention.
“And where have you shown before?” the reporter asked.
“Yale?” Anna said. “The Yale MFA Consortium downtown.” Martha Miller’s husband (who could be known by no other appellation) scratched away at a red patch just above his shirt. Maybe he really did have eczema.