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Charlotte sat there with tears in her eyes. She knew now—hearing George’s words and looking into his face today—that she had made a huge mistake. She had been wrong about him today. She had been wrong about him from the very beginning.
XIII
Doubles
FIFTH AVENUE
The handsomely appointed lobby of the Sherry-Netherland hotel was a haven of tranquility just steps away from the hustle and bustle of Fifth Avenue, with its discreetly watchful uniformed attendants, dignified Louis XV bergère chairs, and barrel-vault ceilings painted with neoclassical scenes. Ten feet into the lobby was a velvet panel on the left that looked like it was part of the wall, but when the select crowd who knew of its existence pushed against it, the hidden panel would swing open smoothly, revealing a narrow red carpeted stairway that was like a secret passage to one of New York’s most legendary hideouts.
One flight down was Doubles, a private dining club that was one perpetual, elegant, raucous party from the moment it opened for lunch till the last scented votive candle was snuffed out late into the evening. Every surface of the exclusive subterranean playground was bordello red, from the red floors to the red ceiling, and mirrored walls only amplified this empire of scarlet. With founding members ranging from Rockefellers and Whitneys to society icons like Nan Kempner and the much-missed comedienne Joan Rivers, one ceased to notice the red after a minute or two because the club was always pac
ked elbow to elbow with the sort of crowd that added the true color to the place.
Lucie had been coming here since she was a young girl—Doubles was a regular haunt for the Churchills in the same way that TGI Fridays might be for a different set, the local standby when they couldn’t be bothered to think of anywhere else to go. Today, as Lucie navigated through the festive crowd to their table, she wasn’t in much of a celebratory mood. It had been only a few days since the big confrontation with George, and though she hated to admit it, she was still a complete wreck. She had decimated several boxes of chocolate truffles and hadn’t slept a wink in the past few nights, as she lay in bed replaying the encounter over and over again in her head.
It didn’t help that everything Cecil did seemed to annoy her today. He had been the one to suggest lunch at Doubles, which had become one of his favorite eateries, and he had made her change outfits twice, finally producing a Chanel couture dress that was yet another gift from his mother. Now she was irritated by Cecil’s insistence on stopping at practically every table along the way to greet yet another society doyenne. Fed up, Lucie decided to let Cecil work the tables at his leisure and went on ahead of him.
“Here you go, Ms. Churchill,” the hostess said, showing Lucie to the corner table where Charlotte sat pensively waiting.
“It’s absolutely packed today! What is going on?” Charlotte asked.
“Mom isn’t here yet?”
“No sight of her,” Charlotte replied.
Lucie frowned. It wasn’t like her mom to be late to anything.
“Where’s Cecil?”
“He’s making the rounds.”
“Quite the mocialite, isn’t he?”
“Ugh, I hate that term, Charlotte! Please don’t call Cecil that!”
“You don’t think it fits him perfectly? He’s the quintessential male socialite—he doesn’t really seem to work, he spends most of his time jetting around the world to parties, and he’s far more popular here than you’ll ever be.”
“So is Freddie, and you wouldn’t call him a mocialite,” Lucie countered as she observed the sea of humanity parting to allow Freddie to cross the room diagonally from the dessert buffet, holding his plate high above his head. Every few feet, he would cast his winsome smile onto some girl he knew and she would come rushing up to him to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Freddie’s not trying to climb any ladders or get on any boards. He’s just the rascal next door that every girl wants to shag,” Charlotte said.
Lucie rolled her eyes. “Listen to you, Charlotte! One year in London and you’re sounding just like one of them.”
Freddie arrived at their table with several lipstick marks on his face. He sat across from Charlotte, putting down a plate piled with the biggest heap of chocolate mousse and fresh whipped cream that she’d ever seen.
“You’re starting with dessert?” Charlotte asked.
“Why not? I’m starving. Where’s Mom?”
“Right behind you,” Lucie said, as Marian came rushing up to the table.
“So sorry, I was dealing with a little crisis. Freddie, please don’t tell me you’re going to eat all that mousse before your lunch.”
“This is my lunch.”
Marian shook her head in dismay. “I weep for your kidneys.”
“Did one of your researchers screw up at the lab again?” Lucie inquired.
