Too Damn Rich (20 page)

Liquid sloshed, drenching their bosoms before
two distinct crashes, one right after the other, signaled glass
shattering on the floor.

Kenzie and Zandra both let out simultaneous
moans of horror. Pinched their skirts and held them out, looking
down at themselves to assess the damage. Then, slowly raising their
heads, each glared accusingly at the other.

The crowd, which only moments earlier had
wisely jumped back, now pressed eagerly forward, soles and heels
crunching on broken glass.

"Oh, God!" Kenzie whispered, appalled. She
half shut her eyes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her
whole. "I could die!"

"You could die!" wailed Zandra. "This outfit
isn't even mine! It's borrowed!"

For one drawn-out, eternal moment they eyed
one another like vipers, faces blazing with mutual reproach. And
then, inexplicably, they both pointed at one another and burst into
rich peals of helpless laughter.

"God!" Kenzie giggled. "Are you ever a
sight!"

"Me!" Zandra hooted. "You should see
yourself!"

"Oh, Jesus!" Kenzie looked at her for
guidance. "What are we going to do?"

"Do?" asked Zandra, immediately taking
charge. "What do you think we're going to do? Come on."

Taking Kenzie by the arm, she unerringly
turned her in the direction of the powder room.

"Let them gawk," she said grandly, giving the
bystanders a dismissive wave. "We'll show them what one ingenious
Yank and one brilliant Brit can come up with, right?"

"We will?" Kenzie sounded dubious.

"Of course we will!" Zandra beamed. "I just
came from the loo, and guess what?"

"It's disgustingly filthy?"

Zandra burst out in a fresh round of
laughter. "In this place? For heaven's sake, no! But someone's
conveniently provided blow driers at every sink, bless their little
hearts, so we'll be dry and look presentable in no time. Now, chin
up! The very least we can do is depart the scene of this mishap
with dignity!"

Which is exactly what they did, heaping on
the hauteur while they were at it.

Sheldon D. Fairey was no longer up to snuff.
Valiantly as he tried, he simply could not convey his customary
aura of superior power and masculine command. Bilious anger and
rancor twisted his insides, burned ulcerously in his gut, thanks to
Robert A. Goldsmith—
may the bastard rot in hell!
And now,
that bitterness was compounded by humiliation as he found himself
cornered by Mr. Spotts.
Will tonight never end?

"Yes, Dietrich," he murmured, "I'm fully
aware of Burghley's traditions."

There was a plummy false richness to his
voice, the kind of timbre a second-rate actor playing a chairman of
the board affects, but is unable to quite pull off.

"Of course the departing head of a department
gets to recommend his choice of a replacement—which, as is
customary, is a prerogative you have already exercised. Also, as we
both well know, with the exception of a very few isolated cases,
such recommendations are usually granted."

"Then does this mean," asked Mr. Spotts, his
forthright eyes drilling into Fairey's, "that I can inform Ms.
Turner that her promotion has been officially confirmed?"

"Hmm, er ..." Fairey, avoiding the direct
gaze, started to raise his glass to his lips, seemed startled to
find it empty, frowned, and slowly lowered it. "Well, under normal
circumstances I would, er . . . I would not hesitate to say yes
..."

It was as if a harsh inner light suddenly
illuminated Fairey's insides, exposing some cancerous character
flaw. But Mr. Spotts, a veteran when it came to displaying patience
and hiding his emotions, effectively masked his alarm behind a
countenance of outward serenity.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Fairey
added: "Your recommendation has, of course, been duly noted." He
smiled acidly, the bile inside him shaping his lips. "However, in
this particular instance there ... there seem to be ... er ...
extenuating circumstances."

What the devil? Mr. Spotts could not believe
he'd heard correctly. Refusing to back down, he said, "Sheldon,
what is all this nonsense? What extenuating circumstances? I do
believe you'll have to be a bit more specific."

Putting off the inevitable, Fairey looked
around, spied a cruising waiter, and signaled for a refill. Glasses
exchanged hands and he took a shaky gulp.

"Sheldon?" Mr. Spotts reminded him
quietly.

"Look, Dietrich!" Fairey snapped. His
impatience ricocheted accusingly back at him. Then, endeavoring to
temper his irritation: "As you are surely aware, times ... well,
times change." He attempted a ghastly, twisted approximation of a
smile. "Granted, it's difficult for us old-timers to adapt with
changing climes, but that's life, eh?"

Having delivered that circumventive little
gem, Fairey quickly poked his nose back into his glass, willing Mr.
Spotts to disappear.

But Mr. Spotts had no intention of letting
Sheldon D. Fairey off the hook—certainly not that easily—nor until
he got to the bottom of all this evasive hemming and hawing.

"Goodness gracious, Sheldon," he said, "just
listen to yourself. Why, you're as agitated as a nest of hornets.
Now do stop giving me the run- around. Out with it, man—out with
it!"

Fairey gave a febrile, shuddering sigh.
"Believe me, it is—no one of my choosing."

"Ah." Mr. Spotts nodded. "By that, I presume
it must be the choice of either Mr. or Mrs. Goldsmith?"

"Bingo," Fairey grouched. "Advance to Go and
collect two hundred dollars."

"So? Who is it?"

"It is—
she
is—a calamity, disaster,
the plague of the Israelites, all rolled into one. She is the ...
the decline of Empire
, Dietrich, as far as Burghley's is
concerned!" Fairey raised his glass, as if to fling it against
something and watch it smash.

"Sheldon, must I squeeze the name out of
you?"

Fairey eyed the glass he'd raised, then
slowly lowered it as his body visibly deflated. "It's Ms. Barbara
Parker, if the name rings a bell." Appraisingly, he hefted the
glass once more, as if again considering its demise. His voice
hissed. "
Now
do you understand?"

Mr. Spotts jerked involuntarily backward, as
though sustaining a fatal blow, before, head reeling, he leaned
toward Fairey and squinted narrowly.

"Ms. Parker?" he croaked in throaty
disbelief. "Please, Sheldon. Please, tell me we are not talking
about Bambi Parker!"

Fairey, again averting his gaze, wished Mr.
Spotts would go away, now that he'd learned the identity of his
replacement.

But Mr. Spotts did no such thing. Tall,
gnarled, and stubborn as the proverbial Monterey pine, he just
stood there staring. "Sheldon ..." His voice had a razor edge to
it. "I asked you if you meant that Bambi Parker!"

"Of course I meant her, goddammit!" Fairey
half shouted. Then he checked himself, raked an unsteady hand
through his hair, and forced his voice lower. "I'm sorry to have to
break it to you, Dietrich, but
she
, and not Ms. Turner, is
your replacement."

Mr. Spotts had lost enough of his famous
composure and imperturbability that Fairey could see his subtle
facial muscles contort and tic. Meanwhile, he himself felt like a
villanous actor holding his audience in thrall. Which was, he
thought grimly, exactly what he was doing—even if he played to but
an audience of one, and the script... well, the script was
certainly one he'd just as soon not star in.

"There, now the cat's out of the bag,
Dietrich." Something ugly had come into Fairey's voice. "Well? Did
forcing the answer out of me make you any happier? Are you content
now?"

Mr. Spotts, disgusted by the unfolding drama,
its message, and its actor, turned away.

"Well, my friend," he observed heavily, his
smile thin and humorless, "there's only one thing I can say."

"And what is that?"

"If Mr. Goldsmith was stupid enough to have
made his bed—"
And for obvious reasons,
Mr. Spotts
thought
, it has to have been his doing and not the missus's; no
way would Mrs. Goldsmith ever permit an estrogen- suffused fox like
Bambi Parker into her henhouse.
"—then it's a bed he's going to
have to lie in. Not that I envy him in the short run." A sour kind
of humor came into Mr. Spotts's voice. "And even less so in the
long haul."

"I'm sorry, Dietrich," Fairey said hoarsely,
fidgeting with fussy little movements. "I tried. Believe me, I
tried. But that infernal man—"

"I know." Mr. Spotts patted his arm in
understanding, then nodded and tucked his head, tortoiselike, into
his stooped shoulders. Starting to walk away, he stopped in
midstep, slowly turned back around, and craned his neck so that the
wattle stretched tautly.

"Seems my health bailed me out just in the
nick of time, eh, Sheldon?" The words tasted of bitter irony.
"Well, best of luck with the philistines, my friend. At least fate
intervened and my hands remain clean."

"Dietrich! Surely you don't believe I wanted
to dirty mine!"

Mr. Spotts shook his head. "No, no," he
assured him quietly, "of course not." Then, a firm believer in
dispensing with bad news quickly, he sketched a wave and wandered
off in search of Kenzie—who, as it turned out, had seemingly
vanished into thin air.

In the ladies' room, like space-age
pistolleras armed with two blow driers apiece, Zandra and Kenzie
were aiming whirring blasts of heated forced air at one another's
bodices and skirts.

"Well?" Zandra demanded gaily above the
racket of multiple blowers. "What did I tell you? Somebody who
knows women had a hand in this party! Why else would these obliging
gadgets have been put here?"

"I'm just glad someone provided them," Kenzie
shouted back, "and that you knew about them. Otherwise, we'd have
been up . . . well, up the proverbial creek without a paddle."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Zandra scolded
cheerfully. "Feel free to use all the four-letter words you want. I
doubt there's a one I haven't heard."

"You know," Kenzie confessed, "I'm awfully
relieved it's you I ran into, instead of some shrill old
battle-ax."

"You can say that again!" Zandra enthused.
"But wasn't it
dee-voon
, the dramatic splash we made?
Anyway, I just know we'll become the best of friends!" Now she had
both blow dryers aimed at Kenzie's waist, and moved them around in
slow circular motions. Glancing up, she added: "I've always been
inclined to believe that the best friendships are those made under
adverse circumstances. Don't you agree?"

"Mm. I've never really given it much—"
Suddenly Kenzie remembered something. "Oh, God!"

"What's the matter?"

"Didn't you ... didn't you say your outfit
was borrowed?"

"Yes, but don't worry. Knowing my friend,
since it's been worn once it'll never see the light of day again."
Zandra switched off a dryer, shelved it above the sink, and kept
the one in her left hand blasting. "Now then. We haven't been
properly introduced yet." She held out her right hand.

Kenzie also put one dryer away and gave
Zandra's hand a firm shake. "MacKenzie Turner's the name, but to my
friends I'm plain Kenzie. Also, you should be forewarned. I'm not
really what I appear to be."

Zandra raised her eyebrows. "How so?"

"Well, I'm a fish out of water. I mean, I
wasn't invited; I'm only accompanying my retiring boss. Otherwise,
Cinderella here's just your average nine-to-five working girl."

"So? What difference does that make?"

"I don't know. I just didn't want you to get
the wrong impression. I'm hardly a socialite, and this Givenchy
you're aiming hot air at?" In the reduced noise resulting from only
two blow dryers running, Kenzie heard a toilet flush in one of the
cubicles and glanced around for eavesdroppers. "It's second-hand,"
she confided in a near-whisper. "Would you believe—a
thirty-five-dollar thrift shop find?"

"That's all?" Zandra looked at her in
amazement. "Brilliant! You must take me shopping with you!"

Kenzie stared at her. "Don't tell me you're
on a stringent budget, too?"

"Stringent?" Zandra gave a self-deprecating
laugh. "Nonexistent's more like it!" Then, more cheerfully: "I'm as
penniless as they come. See? We've more in common than you thought.
Plus, the only reason I'm here is because the friends I'm staying
with were invited."

"How long are you planning to be in New
York?"

"Who can tell?" Zandra thought of her hurried
departure from London and knew the time to share those kinds of
sordid details wasn't now—if ever. "All I know," she murmured, "is
that I'll be here long enough to become a working girl like
you."

"Really! Have you been out pounding the
pavement yet?"

"No, but I don't need to worry about that,
thank God, even though I just flew in from London today. I think
I've already found a position ... or, rather, one's been found, if
not created—" A grimace expressed her distaste at the word.
"—especially for me."

"But you still haven't told me your name,"
Kenzie pointed out.

"That," Zandra gloomed, "is because it's a
cross my ancestry forces me to bear."

A cubicle door opened and a sinewy woman in
fluid, amaryllis-red Scassi swept to the farthest sink, well out of
earshot. "Surely your name can't be all that bad," Kenzie said
encouragingly, adding: "Can it?"

"Oh, no?" Zandra sighed, while down by the
last sink, the woman in red was leaning into the mirror touching up
Russet Moon lips. "Then why don't you try this mouthful on for
size: Anna Zandra Elisabeth Theresia Charlotte von
Hohenburg-Willemlohe."

Kenzie stared. "You've got to be
kidding!"