A Catered Birthday Party (2 page)

“Understood,” Libby said.

Annabel went back to fingering her diamond earring. “And needless to say, I want all the ingredients in this meal to be organic. We don’t tolerate anything else in our house. My husband won’t allow it. Local would be even better. The less of a carbon footprint we leave the happier all of us will be. Also, I don’t want any black pepper in anything, because Trudy’s allergic to it. Naturally I want both of you to set up and serve. It’ll be more intimate that way. You won’t have to worry about my staff getting in your way. In fact, I’ve given them the time off.”

“Is that it?” Bernie asked.

“For the moment,” Annabel replied as she got up. “If I think of anything else I’ll let you know.”

Bernie stood up as well. “We’ll call you with the menu.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Annabel replied. “You can fax it to my personal assistant, who will show it to me. If I have any quibbles I will relay them to her and she will fax you back. Unfortunately, I’m terribly busy with my new projects at the moment. I’m trying to get them squared away, so I can announce them at the birthday party, but I’m sure you girls will do a marvelous job. After all, that’s why I hired you.” She glanced at her watch. “Can I tell my assistant to be looking for your fax in an hour or so?”

Bernie looked at Libby. Libby looked back at Bernie.

“That’ll be fine,” Libby said as she saw her plans for the day disappearing over the horizon. Now she’d be even farther behind.

“Good.” Annabel smiled. “And by the way, Bernie,” Annabel added as she got to the doorway, “you should cut down on the carbs. You’re getting a little chubby around the derrière.” And she patted her rear end. “I hope you don’t mind my saying something, but if the positions were reversed I’d certainly want to know.”

Bernie managed to get out a strangled “thanks” as Annabel walked through the door.

“Am I?” Bernie asked her sister as soon as she was sure Annabel had left the building. She wasn’t going to give Annabel the added satisfaction of overhearing her comments if she could help it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Libby replied.

“Really?”

“Really. Of course, in comparison with her rear end,
everyone’s
is big.”

Big
was not the word Bernie wanted to hear at the moment. “Thanks a heap.”

“Oh, come on. Annabel just can’t stand to see anyone looking good. I would kill to have your body,” Libby told Bernie as she watched her sister study herself in the mirror hanging on the wall. And she wasn’t just being nice. She meant it.

“Maybe I shouldn’t wear these pants anymore.”

“Bernie!”

“You’re right.” Bernie brushed a lock of hair off of her face. “Why am I listening to someone who could be a stand-in for a famine victim?” The corners of Bernie’s mouth worked themselves into a smile. “And we
are
charging her a lot of money.”

Libby smiled. “Pots of it. And we’re getting three-quarters of it up front or we’re not doing it.”

“Good,” Bernie said. If there was one thing she’d learned over her years of catering it was that the rich don’t like to settle their bills. “And now for the menu. I think we should start with a liver pate on toast points, some cheese stuff, maybe some bacon and peanut butter on slices of bread….”

Libby wrinkled her nose.

“Hey, I know they’re not haute cuisine, but dogs and kids like them,” Bernie said a little defensively.

Libby nodded. It was true. They did.

“And then,” Bernie continued, “we move on to steak and potatoes.”

“What about the cake?”

“Something vanilla. Maybe an old-fashioned layer cake, light on the frosting, in the shape of a dog bone?”

Libby pursed her lips. That would do. “Ice cream?”

Bernie thought for a moment. “Probably not. That might be overkill in the sugar and dairy departments.”

“This should work,” Libby observed after she’d written down the menu and faxed it over.

“Of course it’s going to work,” Bernie said indignantly. “We designed it, didn’t we? Although I’m sure Annabel will have some quibbles.” Bernie bracketed the word
quibbles
with her fingers.

“I’m sure she will,” Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire and social arbiter of Longely, said as she swept into the living room with Rudolph, her six-month-old pug puppy, trailing behind her. They were both wearing pink coats and rhinestone collars. “Annabel always has quibbles. Of course, when you have that kind of money you can afford to.”

“It’s not the quibbles I’m worried about,” Libby replied as she pictured six dogs running up and down the table. “It’s everything else.”

“It’ll be an interesting event,” Bree commented as she watched Rudolph sniff the sofa leg. “I just came by to tell you that Rudolph is allergic to chicken, so don’t put chicken on the menu. He’s a sensitive soul, the poor dear.”

Bernie looked down at Rudolph, who was currently trying to dig a hole in the carpet. He didn’t look sensitive to her. He looked like a miniature Sherman tank.

“Interesting in what way?” Bernie asked. She decided to sidestep the whole dog food-allergy issue. Bad enough she had to deal with people with food allergies let alone their canines.

Bree smiled brightly. “In the way that married couples frequently are, dear.”

“And that is?” Libby asked. She’d expected the conversation to go in another direction.

Bernie leaned forward slightly. “Yes. Elucidate for us. Inquiring minds want to know.”

But instead of answering, Bree gave the Simmons sisters another of her smiles and said, “I’m sure you two will do an excellent job. You always do.” After which she left. Just like the Grand Duchess, Bernie thought.

“Now what do you think she meant by that?” Libby asked Bernie as soon as she heard the downstairs door closing.

“I think she means that the Colberts are getting a divorce. Or one of them is having an affair.”

“Seriously?”

Bernie gave her a look. Honestly, sometimes her sister was so naïve. “What else could it be?”

Libby shook her head. “I don’t have a clue. All I know is that whatever it is, it’s none of our business.”

“I suppose,” Bernie said, feigning agreement even though she really didn’t believe that, and she didn’t think Libby believed it either. After all, they’d been raised in a house with a mother who had elevated minding other people’s business into an art form.

“I think we should concentrate on planning,” Libby said.

“I think you’re right,” Bernie agreed.

This was not debatable. They had lots to do and not much time to do it.

A
s Bernie would tell her dad on Friday evening after the furor had died down, things at the Colbert household got off to a crummy start and went downhill from there. Although she couldn’t fault Annabel for her decorating efforts. Those were great. Normally, seeing the Puggables engendered an acute case of nausea in Bernie, but this time, for some reason, the six-foot-high pink, blue, and purple stuffed pugs worked. Maybe because they balanced out the chintz draperies, the ersatz Louis IV furniture, and the knights in armor standing sentinel in the hall. She wasn’t sure.

In any case, there were several Puggables draped over the knights in the entranceway, and then the whole family, all fourteen of them, was perched on the dining room window seat, which lent a festive air to the proceedings. Large helium balloons in the shape of bones, dog biscuits, and various chew toys hung from the ceiling.

Richard Colbert, Annabel’s husband, met Bernie and Libby at the kitchen door and ushered them in. Bernie noticed that although he was dressed in casual clothes, his jeans were pressed, his salmon-colored cashmere crewneck matched his salmon-colored socks, and he was wearing the Patek Phillipe watch she’d seen advertised in the Sunday edition of the
New York Times
for ten thousand dollars.

The first words out of his mouth when he opened the door were, “How long is this going to last?”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “This?” She’d thought he was attractive in a preppy kind of way on first sight, but that impression was instantly dispelled when he opened his mouth.

Richard tapped his fingers on his thighs. “This event. What else would I be referring to, for heaven’s sake?”

“Excuse me, I didn’t get your name. Who did you say you were?” Bernie asked, even though she already knew who he was. “I thought Annabel said the staff would be gone.”

One for our side
, Bernie thought as Richard glared at her, then pointedly glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment at five so I want the cake served by four at the latest,” he replied, taking the high road and ignoring her comment.

“Well…” Bernie began, but Libby jumped into the conversation before her sister could finish her sentence.

Because if there was one thing that Libby knew it was that whatever Bernie was going to say wasn’t going to be nice. This, of course, was another type of situation where she and her sister deviated in their responses. She didn’t see any point in making things worse, while Bernie seemed to revel in it.

Libby cleared her throat. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Libby told him, not meeting her sister’s gaze. “We’re planning on being out of here by four-thirty.”

Richard grunted. “My
wife
,” he said, making the word sound as if he were talking about a particularly nasty substance, “has a way of dragging things out.” He looked down at Libby, something that was easy enough for him to do since he was six feet four inches tall. “All I can say is that I hope you two are worth the money.”

“We are,” Bernie assured him.

But Richard didn’t seem reassured. He shook his head in disgust and started speaking again. “All this hoopdedoo for a dog. Ridiculous. Absolutely absurd.” And he stalked off.

Libby and Bernie exchanged glances.

“I guess he wasn’t in favor of the party,” Libby said. Even though she agreed in principle with what Richard Colbert had just said, she didn’t like the way he’d said it.

“I guess not. Trudy just a dog?” Bernie raised an eyebrow again. “Hardly. I bet Annabel would have something to say about that. Trudy’s the foundation of their company, for heaven’s sake. Colbert Toys was nothing before they started marketing her.”

“Maybe Richard just doesn’t like eating at the table with canines,” Libby suggested.

Bernie snorted. “Why do I think that’s so not the issue. But I do have to say this definitely gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘going to the dogs.’”

“Dad would freak.”

“He wouldn’t be happy, but he’d have done it if that’s what Mom had wanted,” Bernie said as she plunked the carton she’d been holding down on the countertop.

“Not that Mom ever would.” Libby had begged for a cat or a dog or even a hamster for years to no avail.

“That’s true, but that’s not what I was saying. In any case, let’s hope the other guests don’t feel the same way.”

“We know that Bree doesn’t,” Libby pointed out.

“Fortunately,” Bernie said.

She couldn’t believe that she was happy that Bree was going to be in attendance, but she was. Nitpicky as Bree was, she was at least a friendly face. Bernie had just brought in another carton when a tall blonde with a set of conical breasts that reminded Bernie of war missiles bounded into the kitchen and introduced herself.

“Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Joanna Trubottom, Richard’s personal assistant.”

Bernie managed to avoid making eye contact with Libby. Otherwise she would have burst into an uncontrollable giggling fit. They’d sent their fax to a Joanna. The name Trubottom had not appeared on the return sheets.

Libby was also having trouble keeping a straight face, not to mention keeping her eyes off of Joanna Trubottom’s chest. Libby decided her boobs looked as if they were about to launch themselves into the stratosphere. She was trying not to picture that in her head when Joanna spoke.

“You look puzzled,” Joanna said to Libby.

“Not at all,” Libby lied. She was puzzled, but she was puzzled by why someone would do that to herself. How could anyone think that was attractive? “I just thought Mrs. Colbert told me you were
her
personal assistant.”

Joanna laughed in a mirthless kind of way. “No. No. I work for Richard now. I was merely helping Mrs. Colbert for a few days.”

Bernie reflected that Joanna’s expression indicated that this had not been a particularly pleasant experience.

“That was nice of her husband to lend you out, as it were,” Bernie observed.

Joanna managed to suggest by her body language that he hadn’t had any choice in the matter. “Mrs. Colbert tends to…tends to…misspeak,” Joanna ventured, after starting and stopping speaking several times.

As in lie
, Bernie thought. “That must be…difficult,” she continued, trying for neutral conversational ground.

Joanna gave a shrug. “Things are what they are. Mrs. Colbert and Trudy will be down as soon as possible. Trudy is in the middle of her appointment with the dental hygienist,” Joanna explained.

“Dental hygienist,” Libby echoed.

“Yes. Well. Groomer really. She comes twice a week to brush Trudy’s teeth. Trudy’s back teeth have a tendency to develop cavities.”

“What does the tooth brusher use?” Bernie couldn’t resist asking. “Crest or Colgate?”

Joanna Trubottom offered a thin smile. “Actually the toothpaste Anna uses is chicken and bacon flavored,” she informed them as she walked out of the room.

Libby rummaged around in her bag, found a piece of chocolate, and popped it into her mouth. “Do you think that Trubottom is Joanna’s real last name?” she asked Bernie.

“No one would make something like that up unless they were a porn star,” her sister replied. “I can’t imagine what elementary school must have been like for her. Trubottom indeed. Give me a break. And did you notice how she called Annabel Mrs. Colbert and Richard, Richard?”

Libby began taking the pâté out of the carton. “I bet Joanna started off working for the wife. Note the word
now
in the phrase ‘I work for Richard now.’”

Bernie brushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “I gotta tell you if I were married I’d never hire someone that looked like that to work for me as a personal assistant.”

“Maybe she didn’t look like that when Annabel hired her. Maybe Richard bought her her boobs,” Libby opined.

“Well, someone did.”

Libby laughed.

“I have to say you’re getting jaded in your old age,” Bernie told her.

Libby ate another piece of chocolate. “Learned it from you.”

Bernie was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Or maybe Annabel doesn’t care what Richard’s personal assistant looks like. Maybe she doesn’t want to have sex with her husband. Maybe she’s happy to be relieved of the responsibility.”

“I can’t imagine that,” Libby said.

“I can,” said Bernie. “There are a couple of women at the gym like that.” And she proceeded to fill Libby in on the details.

“Still. If he leaves her…”

“Maybe she has all the money,” Bernie said as she started chewing on a carrot stick. “Richard doesn’t look like someone who would leave his meal ticket.”

“You just don’t like him because he was wearing salmon socks,” Libby said.

“No. I don’t like him because he was rude and obnoxious
and
he was wearing salmon-colored socks,” Bernie replied. “Of course,” she reflected, “Annabel is no prize either. They’re equally matched.” She went back to unloading the carton. “I guess this is what Bree meant when she called Richard and Annabel Colbert an interesting couple.” She held up her hand, forestalling Libby’s comment. “Or words to that effect. Fortunately, we’ll be out of here in two and a half hours so they’re not our problem. I just hope that the other people who are coming are a little more enthusiastic.”

“Well, even if they’re not, their dogs will be,” Libby said. She began laying bread slices out on the counter in preparation for cutting them into bonelike shapes. Not just any bread, mind you. This was bread made with 100 percent organic flour and baked in-house. As Annabel had said, nothing was too good for Trudy. “I just had this terrible thought,” Libby went on. “It would be really bad if the dogs didn’t like what we were serving.”

“That’s one of the virtues of the canine species. They eat virtually anything,” Bernie observed. “Well, almost anything,” she amended as she picked up a half-eaten dog biscuit still in its wrapper and threw it in the trash. “I don’t think most dogs like citrus fruit.”

“Maybe we should have taste tested the menu first?”

“For the species that eats from garbage cans,” said Bernie as she thought of the neighbor’s dog that had gotten into their trash last week. “Anyway, what’s not to like? All the dogs will like the liver toast points, the peanut butter and bacon canapés, the steak and mashed potatoes. I’m not too sure about the carrot coins with ginger and the tossed salad, but under the circumstances I don’t think it matters all that much.”

“Well, I hope you’re right,” Libby said as she finished cutting out the bread.

Then while Bernie was putting peanut butter on the cutouts, Libby took the silver serving pieces that Annabel had laid out and filled the dishes up with the Kalamata and Nicoise olives, the spiced pecans she’d made yesterday, and the salted almonds she’d roasted this morning. Then she took everything into the room Annabel had indicated they’d be serving the hors d’oeuvres in.

The Eaton room, as Annabel called it, was painted a dark hunter green with white molding and had a white ceiling made of molded plaster. The walls were covered with pictures of dogs and horses in the British style, while the sofa and the armchairs were upholstered in chintz fabric. There were Oriental rugs over the dark wood flooring. The only thing missing, Libby decided, was a coat of arms.

In line with Annabel’s wishes to limit wine to the main meal, the highboy along the left wall had already been set up with bottles of sparkling water, sparkling cider, and various kinds of soda. What had she said? Libby tried to remember her exact words. Something to the effect of trying to limit the things that the animals couldn’t partake in so both species could have a more communal experience. Which was the rationale for not serving coffee or tea with dessert. Not that Libby was complaining. That just made things easier for her, since nowadays you had to serve both regular and decaffeinated coffees, as well as a variety of teas.

Libby looked around and decided to put the nuts and olives on the end tables where the dogs couldn’t get at them, rather than on the coffee table, which was snout level. After she’d placed them to her satisfaction, she walked into the pantry to make sure that all the serving pieces she and Joanna had faxed each other about were out. Which they were. She’d give Annabel and Joanna kudos for that. They were efficient. Unpleasant, but efficient.

Out of force of habit, Libby moved the Limoges china platters and bowls slightly so they were all perfectly aligned, then checked on the glasses—Waterford—to make sure there were no smudge marks, which there weren’t, and then she inspected the wine.

Three bottles of Lafitte plus one bottle of Annabel’s wine, an obscure Spanish red, had been set out. She carefully moved them all a little farther down the counter so she’d have room to bring in the salad and the vegetables. Then she made sure that the corkscrew, although this was a way fancier device, was next to the bottles.

She was glad that Richard was opening and decanting the wine, because she always had visions of having the cork break off in a two hundred–dollar bottle of the stuff. She gave the pantry one last look to make sure everything was in place—in catering it was all about the details—and left.

On her way back to the kitchen she could hear Richard and Annabel screaming at each other out in the main hallway. Richard was calling Annabel a stupid cow and she was calling him a turd. Not a good sign, Libby decided as she quietly tiptoed behind them so they wouldn’t turn around and see her. But she needn’t have worried. They were too engrossed in their hostilities to be aware of anybody else.