Privileged (20 page)
Daniel instructed a young woman, lips full of pins, to do his bidding: “Right here, Marie.”
Sage was to my right and Rose to my left, each being fitted by other assistants. Daniel bounced back and forth among us, guiding and instructing, cajoling and reprimanding, even occasionally redraping fabric to his exacting standards. The twins looked a little bored. This fashion-show thing was old hat to them, unlike me—when I was asked to participate, my initial reaction had been a horrified and succinct “Hell, no!” I’d instantly pictured all those size twos and fours stalking gazelle-like down a catwalk followed by yours truly, queen of I-want-to-observe-and-not-be-observed, rattling the floorboards at size eight. On the top. On the bottom, after my time enjoying Marco’s cuisine, I was having a serious flirtation with a double-digit experience where both of those digits were real numbers. There was only one person in my family born to grace a catwalk, and it definitely wasn’t me. In family photos, Lily was always out front, smiling into the camera. I was the one edging my hips behind another family member or a well-placed pillow.
Yet here I was, on a foot-high block with a world-famous designer working his magic on me.
“Hold still, Megs,” Daniel cautioned as Marie inserted a straight pin into the material just under my breasts. “You don’t want to be impaled.”
The gossamer fabric being pinned to me was white, and the neckline was so sheer that it appeared as if I wore nothing but a veil until it reached where skin ended and nipple began. The bust was heavily beaded in white and silver, which then faded into the skirt, draping in long, elegant folds to the floor.
“Turn again,” Daniel commanded. “Toward me. Now bend forward.” I did, feeling like I was in a bad exercise video. “Hold.” He was gazing straight into my cleavage, wrinkling his nose. Either he wasn’t impressed, or he was playing for Marco’s team. Probably both.
In went a few more pins. “Okay, we’re done with this one. Rose, it looks like you’re finished, too. Sage, I’m going to intervene personally with you. I don’t like the way the zipper is falling, and I know just how to fix it. Marie, get robes for Megan and Rose. You’ll find refreshments out on the deck. Sage, do not move, under penalty of death.”
“No worries,” Sage told him. “Rose, Megan, I’ll be out in a few. Do not drink all the champagne!”
Rose and I put on our robes and moved out to Daniel’s back deck. As Sage had predicted, he’d put a bottle of their beloved Taittinger on ice. A statuesque Bahamian woman brought a tray of crudités and sliced tropical fruits.
I thanked her, sipped the champagne, and tilted my face up to the sun. “Did you get to see Thom last night?” I asked Rose.
She shook her head. “He had another catering gig. I haven’t seen him since the Christmas Eve ball, which was just really weird. I barely got to talk to him. I mean, there he was, and there I was, but we couldn’t be together. So
tragic
!”
This was a little too
Romeo and Juliet
even for me, lover of all tragic romances. “I don’t see why not. I’m sure he would have enjoyed the company.”
“All my friends were there,” Rose protested. “It’s not so simple.”
I drank more champagne and took in the way the sun glinted in her hair, her luminous eyes, her sculpted cheekbones, and the tiny cleft in her delicate chin. She was incandescently lovely. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you and Thom just told people you’re a couple?” I asked her. “You wouldn’t have to even say it. Just
be
it.”
“You must be joking.”
“Assume for a moment that I’m serious,” I said dryly.
Her eyes darted toward Daniel’s atelier, as if to make sure Sage wasn’t going to walk out onto the deck. “Well, for starters, Sage would ruin it.”
“Seriously, Rose. What is it that you think she could do? She’d bust your chops for a while. BFD.”
Rose drained the champagne and placed the flute on an end table. Then she stared out at the sea in silence. It reminded me of the first time we’d really talked at Les Anges, after Zenith’s visit and the collapse of Sage’s plan for independent prosperity. We sat in silence for a long while. The lapping waves below were the only sound. Then, still staring straight ahead, she spoke so softly, I could barely hear her.
“I remember the flight from Boston to Palm Beach after our parents died. We were in Grandma’s old plane. The flight attendant brought us ice-cream sundaes, like somehow that was going to make us feel better. I remember watching the ice cream melt.” She wrapped her arms around her slender torso. “I remember thinking that I should feel something, but I didn’t feel anything. Not scared. Not sad. Just . . . nothing. Then the pilot started the engine, and all of a sudden it was real. And then Sage . . . she put her hand in mine and said, ‘As long as we have each other, we’re not orphans.’” Rose turned to look at me. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
Whoa. All I could think was: Who was I to push her about this? It wasn’t like I’d had to face that kind of tragedy. It wasn’t like all I had in the world was my sister. I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I think I understand, Rose.”
“Gee. Are we bonding?” Sage stood behind us, her hands on her robed hips. Her tone was decidedly nasty.
Rose snatched her hand away from mine as if we’d been caught cheating. “You’re finished with Daniel?” she asked her sister.
“No, I came out to share in your
Seventh Heaven
moment.” Sage tightened her belt and took a healthy swig of champagne directly from the bottle. “What’s so touchy-feely out here?”
Rose’s eyes flashed a warning at me. She obviously wasn’t supposed to have told me quite so much about her sister.
“It’s personal,” I said.
“Ooh. A little prickly, are we?” There was nothing on Sage’s face but disdain. Where was the girl who had been so nice to me before the Christmas Eve ball? She turned to her sister. “You don’t really think she
cares
about you, do you?”
“Actually . . . yes, I do,” Rose told her, squaring her tanned and freckled shoulders.
“Don’t be dense, Rose,” Sage told her sister pityingly. “She just wants the money Grandma promised if we get in to Duke.”
Rose looked confused. “What are you talking about? Megan is
rich.
”
“She told me that her mother cut off her allowance because she pulled a Precious, and she doesn’t get her trust till she’s thirty or something.”
Actually, I hadn’t told Sage any of that. But I hadn’t done anything to dissuade her from the notion when she’d “figured it out,” either.
Rose took the revelation in stride—thank God—and didn’t back down. “That’s her, not us. If you fuck this up,
we’re
the ones who are going to need money.”
Sage got up so abruptly, she almost knocked over her chair. “You know what, Rose? You’re right. If I fuck this up, you can score twenty-four hundred on the SAT and still not get the money. My advice would be: Suck up to me instead of her. Because right now you can bite me.”
She took the stairs two at a time down to the beach, then stormed off.
I turned to Rose. She looked miserable.
“Relax, sweetie.” I patted her hand. “The money thing just flips her out.” I leaned forward, picked up the fruit tray, and offered it to her. “You should eat—”
“You just don’t get it, Megan.” Rose stood up. “She’s all I have.”
I watched her run down the stairs and up the beach after her sister.
The dramatic unraveling of two romantic relationships in one day is something that:
(a) happens only in movies.
(b) happens only in Palm Beach.
(c) happens only to assholes.
(d) happens only in situations of extreme misunderstanding.
(e) cannot be endured without booze.
S
age turning on her sister at the fitting should have been fodder for my editorial saga of all things Palm Beach. I should have been at my computer, pounding in my delicious word-for-word recollections. I should have felt motivated. But all I felt was sadness. Not just about Sage but about myself.
Who was this girl I had become, who was ready to benefit from the misery of two girls still wounded by their parents’ deaths? How could I tell so many self-serving lies to so many people to get my story? At least Sage had an excuse: Her emotional growth had ended the moment that plane plunged into the ocean. But I’d had a perfectly normal upbringing— compost-heap-obsessed parents aside—and was supposed to be an adult. What was my excuse? Especially when I sometimes got the sense that I was the closest thing they had in their life to a surrogate mom.
That was what I went to sleep thinking about the night of the fitting, and it was what I was still thinking about the next morning when James called. There was some crisis at
East Coast.
He’d have to return to New York that afternoon. Could we meet for a drink before he went to the airport?
We met on the front patio of Le Palais D’Or—the Golden Palace—on Worth Avenue, a restaurant that went heavy on the gilt or, in my case, the guilt. I wore an outfit in which I could actually breathe: Chloe tab-waist gray pin-striped trousers and a black vest over a soft gray Imitation of Christ T-shirt. More from Marco’s suitcase. He was a transvestite with great taste. A truly great guy, a wonderful friend. And just another person I’d be using in my story.
James had already arrived. He rose to hug me, but it felt awkward. I slid into the seat across from him. He ordered us Stoli Bloody Marys, then reached across the table for my hand.
“So what’s the crisis?” I asked.
He sat back and ran his free hand through his hair. “Explain to me why it is everyone thinks they can write fiction. Another songwriter’s story came in. Worst yet. Unsalvageable. So now I’m supposed to find some
other
songwriter who can deliver in a week.”
“Jimmy Buffett can write,” I suggested.
“Has to be someone fresh and younger than Jesus. ” James sighed.
The waitress, a basic Palm Beach blond lollipop with expertly streaked hair, put our drinks and a basket of fresh bread on the table. James sipped his drink. I sipped mine, too, just for something to do.
“So, how do you feel about things?” he finally asked.
What? Did he, too, sense that something was off?
“Your article,” he prompted. “You must have a lot of material by now. You should probably start thinking about form and bang out a first draft. You can fill in the rest of the material later, when you come home, and—”
“No,” I blurted.
He smiled. “You want to wing it? Living dangerously. You know it’s better in the long run if you outline and—”
“That’s not what I meant, James. I meant no, I’m not writing it.” I swear, I almost turned around to see who was talking. Yet with the words out of my mouth, I knew it was the right thing to do.
He actually snorted a laugh. “No. Seriously, Megan—”
“I am serious.”
“Well.” He folded his hands together and placed them on the table. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I leaned forward.
“
Have you lost your mind?
”
“I like them,” I said lamely. “The twins, I mean.”
“You like them.” He stared at me as if I had grown a third eye on my cheek. “You’re not going to write about them because you
like
them?”
“Something like that.”
He shook his head, crossed his arms, and regarded me as if I were a stranger. “Jeez, Megan, you’re a journalist. At least I thought you were.”
“I am a journalist,” I defended myself. “You should see my notes. You should see what I went through to get what I got. When I first got here and was pumping the cook about the twins, he told me—no lie, direct quote—‘They’re damaged.’”
“Great stuff,” James acknowledged.
“No! Don’t you get it? How can I take advantage of two teenagers who lost their parents and never recovered? What kind of a person would that make me?”
The waitress came back and asked if we wanted anything else. I waved her off as James put his head in his hands.
“If your brilliant insight is that the Baker twins are scarred by the death of their parents—which isn’t exactly a shocker, by the by—find a way to write it and make it interesting. But don’t kill the biggest opportunity of your life because you feel sorry for the poor little rich girls.”
I looked into his eyes. Really looked. “I can’t teach them and write about them at the same time, James. It isn’t right.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “I know exactly what’s going on here.”
“I wish you’d fill me in.”
“Look at you.” He gestured at me.
I looked down, then back at him.
“The hair, the makeup, the clothes,” he listed. “Megan, you’ve become their
clone
.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it makes perfect sense when you think about it,” he said confidently. “It’s Stockholm syndrome, where a hostage identifies with his captors. In your case, it’s Palm Beach syndrome, where the writer identifies with her subjects.”
“Just because I look different—”
“You’ve changed.” James gripped the edge of the table and leaned in, his expression intense. “The girl I knew was a
real
writer. She didn’t give a shit about fucking designer whatever. And she
never
would have let her feelings get in the way of her story.”
“I’m not, I—”
That sentence went on permanent hold, because that was when I saw Will walking down the other side of Worth Avenue.
I’m not big on the power of prayer, but I prayed for him not to see us.
But then Will stopped walking, and I saw him shield his eyes to peer across the street. Then James shielded
his
eyes to figure out whom I was staring at.
It didn’t take long for either of them. Will started purposefully down the sidewalk again, his body stiff and angry-looking, and James spun back to me. “You fuck him?” he practically spat.
Does mentally count?
“No.” That was the truth. I hadn’t even kissed him.
“Christ.”
“Nothing happened, James,” I insisted. “Nothing.”