“And?” Mr. Von Bizmark said, his eyes widening behind his tortoiseshell glasses.
“Should we have it fixed or leave it—”
“Fix it,” he said. “Can’t Miguel do it?”
“He’s not a plumber, but I guess he can,” Anna replied, wishing she had just called Ariadne Plumbing.
Anna was about to broach the topic of not using the foundation funds to underwrite the opera production when Mrs. Von Bizmark shrieked.
“Mommy?” said Peony Von Bizmark, the youngest and frequently forgotten third child, her hand on the back of her mother’s thigh. The nastiest gossip on the Mrs. Von Bizmark side concerned Peony and how the Mrs.’s chief interest in her had been to appear younger, as if just having a baby at home with a nanny took five years off your face. Mrs. Von Bizmark liked to tell people Peony was a surprise baby, and if that were true, that she had spontaneously—ooops!—gotten pregnant at forty-nine, it surely would have been. But the machinations involved in securing the best egg, the right surrogate, and the desired third child had drained almost all the unexpectedness out of this reproduction.
“You surprised me, sweetheart,” Mrs. Von Bizmark said, peering down at Peony, a quiet nine-year-old with a knack for invisibility. Mr. Von Bizmark’s glowering softened only slightly at the sight of his youngest daughter. Peony’s nanny—who had introduced herself to Anna as “Nanny” but whose born Indonesian name was surely something else—stood silently at the entryway of the office, waiting for her charge. Nanny had raised all the Von Bizmark children and was a fixture of the household. Mrs. Von Bizmark had made clear that Nanny was the only residential employee who existed outside of Anna’s purview; in fact, she lived outside of almost everyone’s consciousness. Except of course Peony, who loved Nanny but understood she could never wholly replace her mother.
“May I please go in the car with you?” Peony asked Mrs. Von Bizmark.
“No, darling, there’s not enough room in Daddy’s car.” The Von Bizmarks avoided the everyman tedium of a long car ride with potential traffic jams and a child by sending the nanny up separately with the driver.
“We’ll play when you get there,” Mr. Von Bizmark said. Mrs. Von Bizmark snorted quietly—surely this was a rare occurrence. Mr. Von Bizmark glared at her.
“Come, come,” Nanny said, Peony’s audience with her parents at an end. They all shuffled down the hallway and out the door.
Anna slowly, finally, unwrapped her breakfast sandwich, the egg firmed up at room temperature, and bit into it, famished. Delicious. She imagined the Mrs. heading down in the elevator, she and Mr. Von Bizmark facing forward in silence; settling in the car, draping some sort of cashmere wrap over her legs; bound for the Long Island Expressway. Then she would reach for her phone, in her handbag, to call Anna and ask her to FedEx something completely unimportant and replaceable: lip balm, a certain sweater, a book.
Meanwhile, Anna dialed Vera, who was probably on her way to volleyball practice.
“Vera, it’s Anna. What can I do for you?”
“Oh hi, Anna!” Vera knew she’d get further with a little sugar, a trick she’d learned from Mommy. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, and you?”
“You know. Studying.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sure you’re working very hard,” Anna said blandly.
“So, what I was thinking was that I, like, deserved a little something after finals. You know, a little reward.”
“I wonder what you had in mind.”
“Well! I was thinking . . . it’s the perfect time of year to hit Jamaica. Or Saint Barts. And my friends are also really stressed out . . . so. Can you send the jet next Friday?”
“Let’s see here. You would like me to send the G-7 up to Exeter next week to pick up you and your other seventeen-year-old friends—”
“Clementine is eighteen!” Vera interjected.
“Right, of course. Clementine.” Anna unfurled the name. “Anyway, you, Clementine, and company climb on the jet, with its fully stocked bar, of course. Let’s say Friday. Three p.m. or fourish?”
“Four’s good,” Vera said.
“You zip on down to Jamaica to stay at a Round Hill villa all by yourselves for two nights? Or would three be better?”
“Two is fine.”
“And I’ll just call the resort and get you a chef and twice-daily housekeeping. How about water sports? Want to take the yacht out or anything?”
“Uh, sure?” Vera said, sensing a trap.
“OK, great! I’ve got this all written down, and all we have to do now is . . . run it by your mom!” Anna let this hang there for a moment before delivering the death blow. “And dad!”
“Never mind.” Vera hung up.
“I see what you’re saying about the sleeves, Greta,” Julie said into her phone, studying the image of a jade velvet Ralph Lauren gown on her computer screen.
“No velvet,” Anna said. “It’s the spring.”
“I’m hearing no velvet, Greta,” Julie said, and she switched to another image of something satiny, sleek.
When the phone rang again, Anna expected Mrs. Von Bizmark but instead got gruff Richard Gross. “I’m returning her call,” Richard said. Anna put down her sandwich.
“She called you?”
“She called Opal.”
“She’s in the car, but I know Mrs. Von Bizmark wants to honor Opal at the pregala luncheon.”
“Unfortunately, because the lunch is right around the corner, we already extended that offer to Felix Mercurion.”
One of the world’s most famous art collectors and gallerists, Felix Mercurion came from a family who built their business on pieces stolen from the Jews during World War II. He was the sort frequently photographed on Mediterranean yachts, chomping a cigar, gut hanging out, yelling at someone on the phone, a bored model smoking in the background. Famous philanderer. It was hard to know if this would be received as good or bad news. Anna sighed and hung up.
“Oh shit, I never called Phil,” Anna suddenly realized.
It was 2:00 p.m. The Von Bizmarks had left at noon. They would likely stop for lunch. Unless they were fighting. In which case, they would arrive in thirty minutes. Phil’s phone rang and rang. The second before it was going to go to voice mail, in midlaugh, chew, or something, Phil answered. “Yeah, hello.”
“Phil, they’re coming!”
“Who is this?” he said, quieting a man’s voice in the background.
“Phil, it’s Anna. The Von Bizmarks are going to arrive at the Castle in as soon as thirty minutes.”
“What the fuck, Anna!” Phil said, dropping the phone. It clattered to the floor, and she heard a man laugh in the background, only to have Phil hiss him silent. “Are you shitting me?” he said. “Seriously.”
“This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill.”
“I gotta go,” Phil said and then hung up on her. Diva.
“Was he pissed?” Julie said, hanging up with the wine vendor.
“He’s totally freaked,” Anna said, already dialing Miguel. “So about this toilet . . .” Oh, this seemed like such a bad idea. “Can you fix it next week?”