The Devil's Interval (34 page)

“Obviously,” I said, just hoping she wouldn't expand on the how and why of that statement.

“I'm Maggie Fiori,” I said. “Editor at
Small Town
. We're sponsors, and one of our writers, Andrea Storch, is a model. I just came by to say hello.”

She shook her head. “We don't like to disturb the girls so soon before R-time.”

“Our time?”

“R, R, R! For runway, runway liftoff,” she said impatiently. “There's a sponsor's lounge right through there,” she pointed at a billowy curtain. “You can have a drink, but I have to ask you
not
to disturb the models right now.”

“Of course,” I said meekly. “I'll just cut through here and go right to the lounge.”

She started to protest, but a tiny man, dressed all in surgical greens, was standing at her elbow, talking urgently about a tattoo emergency. “It shows, Alexandra, it shows! We didn't know she had a fucking unicorn tattooed just above her ass. The designer is going to have a fit when he sees it.”

I watched Alexandra and Dr. Tattoo take off across the room. I stood for a moment, scanning the room full of beautiful, privileged women dressed in expensive clothes. I knew that each one had a story—an errant spouse, a child with a frightening disease, an alcoholic parent, Conservatory training reduced to giving music lessons to the untalented and ungrateful, but for just that moment, they looked absolutely golden. Luminous, lit up from within. It was like being trapped inside a sorority for God's fortunate—and not getting a bid. Or an invite, or whatever they call those things.

I caught sight of Andrea, who was perched on a high stool, with people fussing around her. Looking over my shoulder to make sure that the leopard-skin gatekeeper and her pal weren't watching,
I wound my way to Andrea and her fluffers.

Starchy Storch, of the tweeds and twinsets, and one string of pearls, had been transformed into someone else entirely. I couldn't see what she was wearing on top, because she was swathed in a protective cape, while a tall guy with ropy arms, head-to-toe in black, leaned carefully in with a comb so tiny it could have been used to groom the cilia on paramecia. He gently tended to each eyelash.

Underneath the cape, I caught sight of black leather pants, laced up the side with what appeared to be buckskin strings. The highest, spikiest, pointiest high heels I'd ever seen dangled from her toes. The eyelash groomer cast a quick look over his shoulder at me. “I don't know who you are,” he hissed, “but do not speak to the model. She cannot move right now. Not one centimeter.”

I nodded, intimidated by his intensity, and by the wicked-looking tools he wore in a handyman's apron around his waist. A young woman, who was standing on a stepstool, slicking Andrea's hair away from her face and cupped around the back of her head, rolled her eyes at me. “Don't worry,” she said. “Victor gets jumpy just before liftoff. You can talk. Andrea just can't open her eyes or talk back to you.”

“Okay,” I whispered. I watched for a moment, fascinated by the tools, the concentration, the products arrayed around the table. “What's she got on top?” I asked.

The young woman, who wore a bowling shirt with the name Emerald embroidered on the pocket, giggled, “More—and less—than you think,” she said. At the same moment, she and Victor ceased their ministrations. They stepped back, looking exactly like the television ER teams when somebody shouts “Clear” and they put the paddles down.

“Can I move?” whispered Andrea.

“Open your eyes, honey,” said Victor, and whipped a mirror out so Andrea could look at herself.

“Oh, my heavens,” she said. She stared into the mirror, and I stared at her.

“What's the look you're going for?” I asked, surveying Andrea's
black-rimmed eyes, shadowed in three shades of purple, and lips lined with what appeared to be the burnt-umber crayon in the sixty-four pack of Crayolas.

“We needed to slut her up,” said Victor, “so she could carry off the leather-and-lace look.”

“Mission accomplished,” I murmured. Victor was tucking tools back into his belt. Somehow it didn't seem like the kind of thing a guy could buy at Ace Hardware, but what did I know?

“Another triumph,” said Victor, looking Andrea over with satisfaction. He reached out a hand to her. “Stand up, honey, we need to get the full effect, and we don't want you falling on your ass in those shoes.”

Andrea took his hand, and stepped down. Victor touched his Bluetooth. “Yes? What? I'm here.” He listened for a moment. “Okay, on my way. The little magazine writer is all tramped up and ready to go.”

“Got to run,” he said, “emergency in Dolce & Gabbana evening wear.”

Andrea looked stunned. “Okay. I guess, I'm fine.”

Victor laughed, “Baby, you're superfine.”

As Andrea stood there, still a little teetery on the spikes, the young woman carefully undraped the smock covering her from neck to waist.

I was anxious to see what was underneath, but my eyes were drawn to Andrea's lips. “Hey,” I said, “did you get your lips shot up with something? They look swollen.”

The young woman piped up, “We put Lip Venom on 'em, and they temporarily plump up.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said feebly.

She looked at me over her shoulder. “It's a commercial product. You can buy it.”

I touched my fingers to my lips. “Do I need it?”

“Everybody needs it,” she replied. She turned Andrea to face me, and I gave a little gasp. Topping those lace-up leather pants was a glittery, black sweater, cut in a vee so deep and wide, that
only the very tips, okay, well, the nipples, on Andrea's breasts weren't showing.

“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Did they put venom on your boobs, too?”

Andrea grimaced. “How bad do I look?” She looked down.

“You don't look bad at all,” I said. “You look sexy, and stacked.” I came a little closer. “Not to be nosy, but how did you do that?” I asked the makeup girl.

“Lots of tape,” she said. She made a round-and-round gesture. “We taped her breasts closer together to create more cleavage, and then we used double-stick tape and body cement to make sure the sweater doesn't fall off. Last thing we do is shadow the cleavage with bronzer and some blush.”

“Well,” I said, “I can't wait to hear what Calvin thinks and what your mother says. We'll be together at the table, and I can't remember looking forward to anything with quite this much anticipation.” Andrea narrowed her eyes at me. “Just a happy spectator, that's me,” I said blandly.

Andrea groaned. “This is a mistake, it's a terrible mistake.”

I reached out to touch her arm reassuringly, but Emerald snapped, “Don't touch. Don't touch her anywhere.”

I nodded, chastened. “Hey,” I said. “Besides cheering you on, I really came back here for the sponsors' party. I wanted to put in an appearance.”

Emerald waved at some curtains in back of rolling racks of clothes. “Through there.”

I gave Andrea one last encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. “I can't believe Gertie talked me into this,” she muttered, rocking gingerly back and forth on the heels. “Oh, Maggie, wait.” She gestured me to come closer, then leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Before I forget—at the models' orientation, Ginger mentioned that her husband would be here for the show. Why don't you cruise around the reception and bump into him? Find out about if the best friends
did
exchange house keys or whether or not he knew about Grace and Trav's fondness for S&M.”

“Perfect small talk subjects,” I said. “I'll do my best.”

I headed through the champagne-colored curtains, and emerged into an entirely different world. A small combo played Brazilian-style jazz in a corner, and a long bar, snakelike in shape, wrapped around the wall. I greeted a few people I knew from other media organizations and worked my way toward a bartender.

“What can I get you?” he asked. “Champagne cocktail, chocolate-infused vodka, or a Scorpion?”

“I'd recommend the Scorpion, Ms. Fiori,” a voice advised me, just to my right. And there he was, the object of my not-yet-begun search, delivered right into my hands. Bill Brand, sleek and gelled as ever, stood relaxed, ranking and rating the crowd as if he were assessing the strengths and vulnerabilities of a start-up's management team. He held a martini glass filled with an amber liquid in his hand. He raised it to me in a mock toast. “To beauty, in all its forms.”

“Tomato juice, no ice, lemon twist, please,” I said to the bartender.

I smiled at Brand. “You must be here to cheer on your bride.”

“I am,” he said, “and to admire the fine collection of femininity the Junior League has assembled on behalf of good works and overpriced fashion.” He took a sip. “Our firm's a sponsor, and I'm hosting our table.”

My tomato juice arrived, and I raised my glass to return his toast. “To fashion and good works,” I said.

The crowd was starting to move away from the bar and swarm together, in the proscribed social ritual—exclaiming, air-kissing, exercising the face-to-face greet, while peering over shoulders to see if someone more interesting was lurking behind pillar or post.

Brand and I leaned against the bar in companionable silence. Key or S&M, where should I go first?

“You didn't want to model?” he asked.

“One of our writers is a member of Junior League,” I said. “As was her mother in Connecticut, and I think her grandmother before her. In fact, were there Junior Leaguers on the Mayflower?
I'm sure some Storch ancestor was there, probably organizing an onboard fashion show.” I paused. “So, Andrea was the best choice. In fact, her mother is here today from the East Coast to support her.” I waited a moment. “Ginger is in the show, isn't she?”

Brand nodded. “Absolutely. Fifth year running. She's a veteran. Well, actually, she skipped the year that Grace died. Too hard to revisit something the girls had done together, I guess.”

“I can imagine.” I said. “What's she wearing?”

He shrugged. “She doesn't tell me much.”

“In general?” I asked. “Or just about this event?”

Brand looked annoyed. “Are you conducting a survey, Ms. Fiori?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Communication practices of the privileged and powerful.”

“Ah,” he said, “that would make you part of the study group, yes? Media people have the power of the pen.”

“I think what matters these days is the power of the YouTube,” I said.

“Evasive, I see.” He rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “Do you and your husband exchange every little secret?”

“We do now,” I said, tersely.

“Pity,” he said. “Spoils the mystery and intrigue a bit, I would think.” He gave me a sidelong smile.

“I guess that's what BFFs are for,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“You know, how kids say ‘best friends forever'? Isn't that what Grace and Ginger were?”

He shrugged. “A little sophomoric for two sophisticated, grown women, I'd say. But yes, definitely the best of friends.”

“I can't even imagine what it must have been like for Ginger,” I said. “Losing Grace like that—the person you confide in, who has your house key and can check on things when you're gone. The one you call in the middle of the night if you're lying awake worrying about something.”

“They were close,” said Brand,
“
but I don't think there were
any midnight calls to exchange girlish confidences. And I would be very surprised to learn Ginger and Grace had exchanged keys. We both have housekeepers and security systems; nobody needs to be handing around keys. You're describing some nostalgic view of friendship from fifty years ago.”

I was about to protest that my next-door neighbor and I have keys to each other's houses, but I thought it would just prove Brand's point about how quaint and retro our lives are.

I scanned the room, wondering if Gus was somewhere. This hardly seemed like his kind of hangout, but then, Gus had shown up at the garden party and watched Ginger with particular enthusiasm. “Is Ginger's father coming?” I asked.

“You mean Gus?” drawled Brand, elongating the name into something that sounded like it was best treated with multiple doses of strong antibiotics.

“Yes,” I said. “He seems so proud of everything she does.”

“I don't have the faintest idea. I don't even know if Ginger invited him. I just know,” he paused, and took a healthy sip of his Scorpion, “he's not a guest at
my
table.”

I was silent for a moment, then mused aloud, “Too bad for Ginger, I guess. Not having all her guys in the same cheering section.”

Brand's face resettled into its bland, pleasant, revealing-nothing expression. “Well, where are you seated, Ms. Fiori?” he asked, refusing to rise to my not-so-subtle bait. “We do have one seat open at our table, and I'd be delighted to have you join us.”