Overseas (9 page)

“I like it.”

“All right,” she sighed, handing me back the dress. “I’m heading home to get ready, so I’ll see you there. Remember, cocktails at seven-thirty. Be late.”

“Be late?”

“Only the losers arrive on time.”

W
ELL, CALL ME A LOSER
. I took a long bubble bath, I shaved my legs, I exfoliated and masked and moisturized and put on practically invisible new Band-Aids. I even did my toenails. But with all that, with dressing and makeup and hair, with fielding calls from various friends and acquaintances and distant relatives until at last I just turned my phone off, I still found myself pulling up to MoMA in a taxi at seven twenty-nine. I blamed it on the traffic. Park Avenue had been as swift as a motor speedway, which only happens when you’re not in a hurry.

There were about eight people there when I walked in, all of them male and over forty. I went directly to the bar. “Champagne, please,” I said to the bartender. “Straight up.”

He winked. “Coming right up.” He whipped out a champagne flute
and poured. “So,” he said, “what’s a gorgeous girl like you doing here so early?”

I took the flute. “Hiding from the press,” I answered, drinking deep.

He laughed and refilled my glass.

I wandered over to the silent auction and glanced at the rows of lots and clipboards, ordinary objects describing the extraordinary visual evidence of the lavish world around which I’d hovered these past three years. Lunch and batting practice with Derek Jeter came with a suggested starting bid of $25,000. Lunch and an on-air segment with Brian Williams started at $35,000. I saw plenty of spa visits and weekends in Aspen; a week aboard a private 150-foot yacht, complete with captain, crew, and private chef; a stunning diamond rivière from Harry Winston; a case of 1982 Bordeaux from Sherry-Lehmann with a price tag that made my eyeballs pop out and roll onto the floor. I smiled privately at the sight of a Marquis JetCard—the starter version of a NetJets share—with a starting bid of $95,000.

People were beginning to filter through the room, dressed with painstaking expense. An elegant blond woman in her forties, sporting an endless tangle of fat pearls around her throat, bent over the Brian Williams segment and scribbled in a bid. “Wow,” someone said, near my elbow, “you’d never know there was a recession on.”

I looked over: a narrow-faced man, chin and hairline receding in tandem, wearing a stiff oversized tuxedo and standing a good six inches too close. “Well, it’s not official yet,” I pointed out, shifting a step backward.

He smiled and motioned to my hands. “Can I get you another drink?”

I looked at my glass, which was nearly empty. “No, thanks.” I smiled back. “I think I’m already past my limit.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He grinned. “See anything interesting?”

“Nothing I can afford.” I looked over his shoulder, hoping to see someone I knew. Even Banner would make a welcome interruption.

He held out his hand. “Mark Oliver.”

I took it lightly, hoping he was one of those people who hated limp handshakes. “Hi, Mark. Kate Wilson.” His palm was distinctly moist; I
snatched my hand back and wrapped it around the base of my champagne flute.

“Sounds familiar.”

“It’s a common name. I had two other Kate Wilsons in my graduating class.”

“Oh, where did you go to college?”

“Wisconsin.” Maybe that would scare him off.

“A Badger! High five.” His hand went up.

“Woo-hoo,” I said, slapping it. Where the
freaking hell
was Charlie?

“Yeah, I went to Yale myself,” he went on, “but I know a couple guys from Wisconsin. My dentist.”

“You know,” I said, “I think I see someone I know over there. Excuse me.”

“Later!” he called after me. “See you around!”

I walked away slowly, hoping someone familiar would materialize before I reached the end of the room. I was stopped twice by waiters bearing hors d’oeuvres, over which I lingered as long as I could, deliberating between coconut shrimp and Thai-chili spring rolls while the crowd accumulated.

“Kate! What’s up?”

“Charlie! I am
so
glad to see you. You have to stay right next to me until the dinner starts. It’s like a singles freak show over there.”

“Harsh, man,” he said. “Drink?”

“Champagne. But I’m going with you.”

Charlie had his shortcomings, but maneuvering around a bar area wasn’t one of them. In less than a minute, he’d secured the drinks and staked us out a prime location that neatly triangulated the bar, the entrance, and the door from which the waiters were streaming with fresh hors d’oeuvres. “Sorry about the soup thing today,” I told him, snatching at a skewer of pepper-crusted ahi tuna. “Alicia sort of kidnapped me to go dress shopping.”

“No worries. I ate it myself. Mulligatawny, dude. Awesome.”

“Well, thanks for the thought, anyway.”

“So. Any word from the
man
?”

“The man? Oh, you mean
Julian
? No, he hasn’t called. I think he’s got some sort of day job. You know, running some money.”

“Ouch. Sarc off, man.” He took a drink of microbrew. “So are you bummed?”

“Look, Charlie,” I said, “I think you’re under the mistaken impression, like everyone else in this freaking town, that I’ve got some kind of
thing
going with Julian Laurence. Which is not the case. Hasn’t been, isn’t, won’t be.”

“’Cause I heard he was coming here tonight,” Charlie went on placidly.

“Who told you that?”

“Banner. Says Southfield’s head trader’s wife is on the fund-raiser committee.”

Geoff Warwick’s wife. It figured. “Banner’s full of it.”

“
Shit
, Kate. For the last time. Full of
shit.
Yeah, he is, but even a stopped fucking clock is right twice a day.” He tipped his beer bottle at me.

“Julian doesn’t go out much. I would be shocked to see him here tonight. It’s not his thing.”

“You seem to know a lot about this guy, considering you don’t have a
thing
going.” He made quote marks around the word with his fingers.

“Look,” I said, exasperated, “why is everyone so obsessed with this? You’re all driving me crazy.”

He shook his head. “Kate, the guy’s a billionaire. A living legend.”

“No,” I said, “he’s just Julian.”

“Oh, come on.
Just Julian
. If he weren’t rich, you wouldn’t be into him.”

“I’m
not
into him,” I said, not all that convincingly. “And even if I were, it wouldn’t be about the money.” I tried to smile. “Actually, it’s his looks.”

“You lie. You so lie.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” He shrugged. “Dude, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You chicks
are lucky. I’ve only got one shot at getting rich, and that’s the hard way. You’ve got two. You can make it or marry it. So go for it. I’m your fucking cheerleader here. Rock on.”

“Oh, please. What are you, Jane Austen? Evolve.”

“Kate,” he laughed, “life isn’t some college feminist studies seminar. It’s the real world. Human fucking nature. You can’t fight biology.”

“I swear to God, Charlie, if he lost every penny of it tomorrow…” I stopped.

“So you admit you’re into him.”

“All right, I kind of like him,” I said, in a hushed voice. “And okay, maybe not every
single
penny. A roof over his head would be helpful. But a studio apartment, Charlie. That’s all.”

“Of course,” Charlie said, “that’s all talk. There’s no way of proving it, short of, like, total fucking catastrophe. Which would give us all a lot more to worry about than getting laid.” He tilted the bottle high and drained the last of his beer. “All right, Kate. Come on. Let’s work this crowd. It’s what we’re here for.”

“Do me a favor, though. Please don’t mention the thing from last night.”

He held up his knuckles for a fist bump. “Word of honor, dude.”

D
INNER WAS
called at eight-thirty, with no sign yet of Julian. Sterling Bates occupied two or three tables, sponsored by various divisions, and I recognized a few faces nearby when we sat down at ours. Banner joined us, sitting down directly next to me, and then Alicia, who was already several basis points above the legal limit.

“You look fabulous,” said Banner, leaning over my dress to make sure.

“Thanks.” I stabbed into my mesclun. “Alicia helped me pick it out.”

He turned to her. “Fucking genius, Alicia.”

She rolled her eyes and went back to schmoozing the client who sat next to her, a stoop-shouldered man in his middle forties with a thick wedding band on his left hand, which he kept twisting around nervously.

Halfway through the main course, I caught sight of Geoff Warwick past a momentary gap in the crowd. He was about ten tables away, much closer to the podium. Seated next to him was a smug-looking woman with glossy blond hair, presumably the boring wife; she wore a low-cut dress and a spectacular necklace of either emeralds or sapphires. It was hard to tell in the atmospheric lighting.

The seat next to her was empty. Julian’s seat.

I watched dully as the speakers ascended the podium, making announcements about the silent auction (it was closing in fifteen minutes) and dancing (after the dinner). Then the speeches started: various muckety-mucks, fund-raisers, donors. The evening’s honoree, an aggressive alpha socialite wearing a dress encrusted with Swarovski crystals.

“Excuse me,” I said, and rose from the table, taking my clutch with me. I wasn’t sure I was coming back.

The bar area wheezed with cigar smoke by now, so I wandered around until I saw a set of open doors leading to a terrace, where the breeze blew in cool and stinking from the Dumpsters out back. The rear elevations of the surrounding buildings rose hideously about me, but I didn’t much care; the glamour of the evening was already spoiled for me. What had I been expecting, really? That Julian had received some telepathic communication of my arrival at the gala and shown up to sweep me off my feet? What kind of idiot was I? He was a gentleman; of course he had come to my aid in the park. That didn’t mean he had any kind of
thing
for me.

“There you are,” said someone behind me, making my heart thud the instant before I realized it was the wrong voice.

I rotated. “Hello. Mike, right?”

“Mark.” He beamed me a big grin, apparently encouraged that I’d come within two letters of his first name. “High five,” he said, holding up his hand again.

“Sorry. I’m all out.”

“That’s all right. I brought some champagne,” he said hopefully, holding it out.

“Er, thanks.” I took the glass and balanced it on the ledge. “I warn you, there’s some Dumpsters down below, and I don’t think they’ve been emptied lately.”

He shrugged. “That’s okay. I have kind of a cold coming on, anyway. Can’t smell a thing.”

Lovely.

He plunged on into my silence. “So, what brings you out here all alone?”

“The cigar smoke.”

“Yeah, it was getting pretty thick, huh? Some assholes from the Sterling Bates derivatives desk.”

“Figures,” I said, under my breath.

“So would you like to dance? I think they’re starting up the music.”

“Um, thanks for the offer, Mark. But I think I might head home. I have to go to work in the morning.”

“Oh, where do you work?”

“Sterling Bates.”

“No shit. Put my foot in it, didn’t I?” He paused to crack his knuckles. “So would you like to share a cab?”

“Um,” I said, “I actually have a friend…”

“Where is he? I’ll tell him you’re bailing early.”

“You know, that’s not necessary. I’ll just go find him myself.” I snatched my clutch from the balustrade, next to the untouched champagne glass. “Have a great evening, Mark.”

“Wait.” He grabbed my arm.

“Mark,” I said, through my teeth, “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

“Wait a minute,” he repeated, and I could smell his breath now, drenched in Scotch.

I yanked my arm away. “Seriously, Mark. I really have to go.”

He grabbed again. “No, wait. You have to listen to me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What is it with you bitches? You only suck the big swinging dicks, huh? What about mine?”

“Mark,” I said fiercely, “I’m going to scream in two seconds. Loud. So you’d better let me go. Now.”

He lunged forward. I jerked my knee upward into his groin. “Bitch!” he gasped, doubling over. His arm swung out and thumped my gut.

This was just not my week.

I grabbed the champagne glass and broke it over his head. “There,” I said. “Now go fuck yourself, Mark.” I swept past him and ran to the doors, straight into the well-tailored chest of Julian Laurence.

“Kate, my God! What’s wrong?”

“Oh,
now
you show up. I could have used you five minutes ago.”

He looked past me to Mark Oliver’s wet groaning figure, flinging champagne droplets over the terrace. He began to laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Looks as though you had the matter well in hand. Poor little bugger.”

A smile lifted the edges of my unwilling mouth. “Well,” I said, “I’m not totally helpless, you know.”

“I know.” He took my hand and laced our fingers together. “Come along, then, darling. Let’s get out of here.”

Amiens

T
he damp smoky interior of the Chat d’Or bustled with patrons. British officers, mostly, the tidy gloss of their khaki tunics suggesting Staff; some seated together, talking and laughing; some with women, looking self-consciously discreet.

“You’re quite sure you’re all right?” Julian asked, helping me into a worn ladder-back chair. Not an elegant establishment, the Chat, but despite its mismatched furniture and fuggy atmosphere and plain dark-beamed plaster ceiling, it still clung to a certain provincial respectability. A white linen cloth covered our table in threadbare decency, and the ancient waiters wore black.

I smiled. “Yes. I promise. It was only the shock.”

“The shock?”

“Of seeing you at last.”

Something important had occurred to me on the way to the café. I’d fought my way to Amiens circa 1916 in a panic, with no further thought than finding Julian and delivering my warning: an absurd failure of imagination. What had I expected, really? That I could blurt out the truth and be believed? That Julian would simply say to himself,
Well, splendid! Awfully good thing that Cassandra came round; I’ll just put up here in Amiens for an extra night and thank my lucky
stars?