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KATE
Four Years Ago
“Two words for you… honey daddy.”
Eric adjusted the lapels on his overly priced designer shirt, checked his reflection against the glass door, and complained about his hair, again. Distracted by his incessant rambling on styling products and a loose strand of hair refusing to cooperate, I took the opportunity to check my appearance.
Unlike Eric, my hair was correctly styled into a tight bun toward the back of my head, not a single strand out of place. The simple hairstyle suits this type of soirée—formal, with an elite guest list in a very fancy house.
And I’d only seen the front entrance.
Somehow, Eric persuaded me to attend his mother’s sixtieth birthday party. It was being held at their newly purchased East Hamptons estate. According to Eric, the house was a birthday present from dear old daddy for never being home and always traveling abroad.
Some birthday present!
And, of course, the invitation came at the last minute. Eric was supposed to bring his colleague, Emma, but she had some sort of personal emergency. Eric narrowed it down to being knee-deep in Italian dick, or Aunt Flow is paying a visit. Knowing I was his backup, I didn’t give in so quickly, making him practically beg for me to attend. In exchange for my presence, he promised to take me to this new restaurant I had been dying to try, but because of some waitlist, I could never get a table. He had connections, and I took advantage of those connections to finally taste the famous crème brûleé the chef is known for.
“Honey daddy?” I question while grimacing. “You mean sugar daddy?”
“Sweetheart…” Eric purrs in his over-the-top fake British accent, “… you need a man of age. Someone of maturity. Honey is sweeter than sugar.”
I don’t question Eric any further after he lost me at man of age. Most of the time, I let him do his thing while I blatantly ignore his quest to find me a man. Sometimes, it’s just easier to nod my head and sidetrack him with pointless gossip.
I’d been attending quite a number of these upscale events in the city, so I had the perfect dress to wear—a black off-the-shoulder maxi dress with a high slit stopping mid-thigh. The dress was gorgeous and was an impromptu purchase last fall when Charlie visited Manhattan, warranting a much-needed girls’ shopping trip and dent to my credit card.
Of late, I’d worn it to three separate events. My rule is if the guest list differs, a green light to recycle the wardrobe. Eric hated this rule, which is why I lied and told him it was brand new on the ride over here.
We stood in front of the large doors as the butler answered formally. The home’s sheer size was breathtaking, and only a few minutes ago, I was wowed by the front iron gates. In Eric’s exact words, the home was sophisticated and a meticulously crafted estate sitting only minutes away from the harbor. I swore he pulled those words from an architectural digest of some sort. His usual responses were, ‘this is a palace fit for a queen like myself,’ or in some cases, ‘what a shithole, I wouldn’t send my ex here, and that’s saying a lot since he’s pure trash.’
Once we had passed the gated entry and elegantly landscaped grounds, I knew Eric wasn’t joking when he said the house was enormous. He’d only been here once since his father purchased it. Yet he made it quite clear he planned to spend his summer vacation lounging by the pool while being served by a butler and eyeing the pool boy who happened to be a confused straight guy fresh out of college.
We took a step into the open foyer, and my eyes immediately gazed up toward the high ceilings and intricate detail. In proper Hamptons design, each room boasted high ceilings, massive windows, custom cabinetry, and bespoke leather accents. I loved architecture and design, wishing I’d studied it in school since it’s my passion.
“This house is... wow, that fireplace is stunning,” I raved, taking small s
teps while admiring the décor.
“I know, right?” Eric smiled politely at guests who walked past and kept his arm linked with mine. “My mother has exquisite taste.”
“Yeah, and Daddy has a nice checking account.”
Eric snickered as we continued to walk through the wide hallway toward the back French doors. Everywhere I turned, my eyes admired the detailed pieces from the chandeliers to the sconces. We strolled past the open-plan kitchen with marble countertops, so grand in its presence and equipped with every appliance a chef would need.
We stopped at the doors which were open to the enormous yard. Directly in front of us was an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and although Charlie and Lex’s place had quite a large pool, this one was even grander. For someone who grew up in England, pools always fascinated me.
With dusk setting in, the lights were turned on and illuminated the crystal-clear blue water, making the pool mesmerizing with its calming nature.
The trees surrounding us were dressed in fairy lights, brightening the outdoor area and giving it a whimsical feel. Toward the right, across a sizable makeshift dance floor, a small band was playing 1950’s music, which, according to Eric, is his mother’s favorite era.
“Eric, darling, you came.”
A woman, assuming it was his mother judging by the similar facial features, was dressed in a beautiful blush couture gown with a diamond necklace draped around her neck. When I first met him, Eric told me that his mother was of Chinese descent and his father was a full-blooded white American. Together, it caused many issues earlier on in their relationship, but they managed to remain married for over forty years. On closer inspection, I could see where Eric got all his features from.
She kissed both of Eric’s cheeks while holding his hands. With a warm smile, she let go to fix his hair just the way he liked it.
“Mom, this is Kate,” Eric introduced me. “Kate, my mother, Vivian.”
I leaned in to kiss both her cheeks, wishing her a happy birthday at the same time. The scent of Chanel No. 5 lingered in the air between us.
“You’re just as gorgeous as my baby described you,” she said with a gracious tone. “And your accent is just darling.”
“I know, right? I told you, Mom. I should try to find myself a British gay man.”
“Oh, Eric.” She patted him gently on the chest. “Tristan will be back. You’ve got to give monogamy a try.”
I pursed my lips and kept my smile fixed. When it came to matters of the heart, Eric refused to settle down, thinking these years were made for partying and bed-hopping. Though, somehow, he’d fallen in love yet refused to acknowledge said fact.
Basically, he’s a royal pain in the ass and such a high-maintenance friend.
“I must say hello to your uncle and aunt from Boston.” She cupped his chin with pleading eyes. “Please try to talk more than two words with your brother, okay?”
Eric nodded, and the second she was a fair distance away from us, he mumbled something about geeks and small dicks.
“Your mother is beautiful and so refined…” I trailed off while watching Vivian greet her guests. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Hey, I resent your judgment!”
Eric quickly switched his grumpy face to desperation as he caught a waiter serving shrimp, having complained the entire ride over here of being in starvation central. After a trying day at work with a deal that almost fell through, I was happy to drown myself in champagne and pass on the questionable sea-life with its disgusting tail limp on the silver platter. Aside from my mother’s homemade fish recipe back home, I wasn’t a seafood person.
“Okay, so here’s the lowdown on the guests.” Eric pulled me aside as if he would reveal some sort of government-kept secret and discreetly pointed to the man a few feet from us. “Ivan owns three properties in The Hamptons plus this gorgeous place in Martha’s Vineyard. He runs his own wine emporium and exports to Southeast Asia or something like that.”
“The man with the cravat?” I asked, watching him hold a pipe.
“Yes, the man with the cravat.” Eric shuddered, his distaste for cravats needed a whole other discussion. “He’s onto wife number three. Not too bad considering he looks like he belongs in a nursing home.”
“Lovely,” was all I answered.
“Word around Mom’s tennis club is that wife number three is tapping her tennis instructor. I could get you in.”
“Um, get me in where?”
“In,” Eric repeated, eyes wide, making some weird gesture with his hands. “In his bed and bank account.”
Cocking my head, I shook it with annoyance. “I don’t need a man, let alone one who could pass as my great-grandfather.”
“Okay, fine,” Eric sniped. “The guy over there in the burgundy suit…”
