Audrey would be all right. She had low blood sugar and a reaction to a “caffeine IV” treatment, a concoction of vitamins and various synthetic boosters. She had to spend the night in the hospital for observation, which she treated like a reward.
I finally find Daisy at the bar at Au Rêve. That’s the Michelin-starred French restaurant with the famous chef on the seventy-fifth floor that is almost always empty. Daisy is at the bar, drinking a martini and eating moules frites. I walk right past the hostess.
“Bets on how long until Audrey drives Sloane into the East River?” Daisy says, slurping a mussel.
“Where were you?”
“Two weeks?”
“She could’ve died.”
“You’re right, probably five days.” I notice that she’s fiddling with something. Molly Gibson’s card. That’s when I know Daisy knows. I’ve heard the rumors, about how you have to get special permission to quit 527 Park, and sometimes you can’t quit at all.
“Is everything a joke to you?” I ask.
“Yes,” Daisy says, slipping the card in her bra before I can mention it. “Yo, Em. Chill. She had a reaction to the glutathione IV.”
“Why are we injecting glutathione?”
“Ummmm, because we’re good hosts?” Daisy notices my genuine discomfort. She touches my arm. “Em. What did you think this was? Spa treatments and self-care hashtags? It’s not like the fate of mothers, future generations and, you know, humanity’s survival, is at stake. We’re starting a revolution. We’re literally changing the world.”
I pull my arm away. “You sound like a girl boss before she gets convicted of fraud.”
Daisy hums under her breath, a sound softer than judgment but sharper than kindness. “If you want to choose to be a victim, that’s on you, Em.”
I want to laugh, but it catches in my throat. “I gotta go. I’ve got a fancy dinner party with an actual friend who gives a shit. She’s old money and uptight and beautiful and bulimic, and clothes look amazing on her.”
I down Daisy’s martini in one go. And leave.
—
Marcela couldn’t watch Holden for the night, and Roman was working late, so I’d scrambled, asking around for babysitter referrals. I finally found a New School student who charged thirty dollars an hour (plus her Uber), but she came highly recommended. She didn’t know Holden’s routine, so I left Post-it notes all over the house. It wouldonly be a couple of hours until Roman came home. Aside from the research trip to Atlantic City, I hadn’t been out at night by myself since before Holden was born, and dipping a toe back into parties with Penelope’s crowd would be a real test. I tried on one of Daisy’s burnt-coral-colored caftans. I looked like an Oompa Loompa. I tried to belt one of Roman’s dress shirts; too frumpy. I finally dug back into the archives of what remained of my pre-baby closet. I fished out a little black dress I bought at a DVF sample sale in what used to be a Bed, Bath & Beyond in Chelsea. I pull the tie around where my waist used to be. I wear makeup and try on five different pairs of shoes before I decide on a pair of Isabel Marant pumps that Penelope tossed me a couple of winters ago when I was organizing her closet. The suede is worn and the buckle broken, but for the first time in forever, I feel presentable. I even shaved. 527 Park had given me a newfound confidence and I was ready to give it a whirl.
I knock on the town house’s heavy wooden door. Beau, with his puffed chest and rosy cheeks, answers while mid conversation—“He’s Icahn’s great-nephew. Were we supposed tonothire him?” I hand him a decent bottle of pinot. He gives it to a staffer, who whisks it away without even looking at it.
“Hey. Penelope has been looking for you.”
“Well. Here I am.”
The room is full of Penelope’s friends, who are all wearing crisp blouses tucked into slim-fitting belted jeans. Not a dress in the group. They’ve all pulled blue medical booties over their shoes to protect the brand-new brushed white flooring. I take a pair from a basket and put them on. So much for Isabel Marant. I grab a white wine off a silver tray. Before I take a sip, Penelope finds me. “You made it! Yay.”
“Yay.” This is the least fun party ever.
Penelope pulls the staffer aside and says to both of us, “Emily Joan is here. We can start the dinner service.” Then she clinks a forkagainst her glass. “Hiii. If everyone can move into the formal dining room.”
Somebody points to the long wooden table, which easily seats fifteen, and asks, “Is that a Bourgeois Bohème?”
“You know it is,” Penelope says.
I walk toward the dining room. Everyone takes their seats behind calligraphy name tags. I have met Penelope’s friends at parties for years and yet they still look at me as if they have no idea who I am. I wave to Beatrice and Libby, who give me a vacant “hello.” I walk to check the only remaining name tag at the head of the table. It reads,Penelope. The furniture had a name but I didn’t.
I pull Penelope aside. “Um, I don’t see my place.” Penelope steers me into the kitchen. She starts to scramble, inspecting silverware, peeking inside a white cake box filled with puff pastries, tasting a spoonful of chilled tomato soup.
“I thought you’d be here early,” she says.
“Why?”
“To take coats. I’ve got Beau answering the door. God help us.” Penelope starts to fiddle with a remote control that looks like a Goop vibrator. “I am so understaffed. Letty went to my dad’s place and I have no idea how to work anything. It’s all solar and controlled by an algorithm or AI or something. I didn’t want to live in a robot, but whatever makes Beau happy…”
