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Kat
July
Meg and I are at post-yoga sushi with Veronica when I see how good Meg is at what she does, and I get my first glimpse into what she might be up to.
“Where is Ron having next week’s fundraising dinner?” Meg asks.
“A house in Beverly Hills. A huge estate in the flats.”
“Has he ever hosted anything at his house?” Meg asks.
I look up at the mention of the Canyon Drive property, but Meg keeps her eyes on Veronica.
“It’s too small,” Veronica says. “The crowd we’re after prefers modern chrome and clean lines. Ron’s house is more English estate.”
Meg looks concerned.
“What?” Veronica asks.
“I just think it’s too bad Ron doesn’t live somewhere with more status. There are so many properties on the market right now that have more of a pedigree, you know?”
“I suppose,” Veronica says.
“I’d tell him myself, but I’m a salesperson. Everything we say is suspect.”
I dip a piece of sushi in soy sauce and watch the exchange.
Meg continues. “His neighborhood is nice enough, but everyone knows that those with real money and power live north of Sunset Boulevard.”
“I doubt Ron will want to move so close to the election.”
“Sure. It’s just…” Meg trails off, as if she’s not sure how to say what she needs to say. “At that fundraiser you took me to, I overheard a conversation that got me thinking.” She looks out the window, as if trying to remember the details. “They were an older couple…she had sort of shortish gray hair…you know who I’m talking about.”
Veronica shakes her head, and I almost laugh. Meg is describing 90 percent of the people at that event.
Meg says, “God, I can’t believe I don’t remember their names. Not just rich, but really wealthy. And he’s some kind of big deal…”
“The Morgensterns?” Veronica offers.
Meg snaps her fingers and says, “Yes! Thank you. Anyway. I overheard them say something about how Ron was low class masquerading as high class.” Meg wrinkles her nose. “She said, ‘He’s supposed to be a successful developer and yet he lives in a neighborhood with houses so close together you can hear when people are in the pool or grilling at their barbecues.’” Meg takes a salmon roll and pops it into her mouth, chewing. When she swallows, she says, “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that rich people care about really weird shit.”
Veronica looks worried, but Meg shrugs and says, “I’m sure it’s fine. I mean, who cares where he lives, right?”
Then she changes the subject to our yoga teacher’s upcoming vacation to Cabo. “I guess if you’re looking for a spring break vibe, Cabo’s great.”
But Veronica isn’t listening. Not really. Meg’s careful comments have framed the outline of what she wants Veronica to do. Tell David that Ron’s major donors don’t see him as one of them. And she very quietly laid out what was holding him back: his house.
***
After lunch, Veronica catches an Uber in front of the restaurant, and I wait with Meg while the valet brings her car, though I’d parked my own at a meter three blocks away. On the street next to us, traffic slows to a stop as the light turns red.
“Hey, blondie, does the carpet match the drapes?” The voice comes from a convertible next to us. Three men—boys really—look back at Meg, smiling.
Irritation passes through me, and I put on a stony expression most women would recognize, ready to pretend I don’t hear the sexual harassment being hurled our way by boys who have already learned that their passage through life will be largely unobstructed.
But Meg turns toward the one who spoke, a smile plastered on her face. “In my living room, you mean?”
Confidence drains from his expression as Meg takes another step toward the car, and a bubble of a laugh wells up inside of me at how easily she’s turned the tables on him.
