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“Tell him we love him,” I beg her, hearing the sirens of the police pulling up in front of the building.
“I’ll tell him,” she promises me. “But he knows.”
I flip the fake officers the bird, unable to release a small fraction of my pent-up frustrations at someone, anyone, to make me feel better. Then I turn and head for the exits. At the same time, the real police start to climb from their cars. I hail a taxi as soon as they push their way through the circling glass doors.
Once I’m settled in the backseat, I look at the crumbled paper in my hands.
It’s Remi’s new phone number.
* * *
It’s after midnight.My ass is numb, and I can’t feel my feet. I’ve been sitting in front of Remi’s front door, off and on, for over twelve hours. I gave the doorman downstairs fifty bucks to let me know when Remi showed up in case he arrived while I was in the coffee shop across the street, refilling on caffeine and draining my bladder.
Remi never comes home.
FOUR
JULIA
I hate the Plaza. I know as a woman of status and means, it should be like, my home base or something like that. But honestly, I despise the place. It’ssogaudy. Don’t get me wrong; the architecture is beautiful. But we’re well into the twenty-first century. Isn’t gold-plating so last century?
I check out my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I gather my courage to step into the private meeting room of the restaurant. I used my flat iron this morning, the first time since I purchased it. My hair is silky and sleek, falling over my shoulder in a thick blonde wave. I’m dressed conservatively in a light grey skirt that stops at my knees and a baby blue button-up blouse with a black boyfriend cardigan over the top. I hit the spa yesterday; my nails are painted a conservative nude and my brows arched to perfection. I’m wearing a pair of nude pumps, low heels, to be almost invisible. I’m even wearing hose, which I only wear when I know they will be removed promptly.
Preferably by Remi or Justin’s teeth.
Okay, Julia—down, girl. Those are not the types of thoughts one should have when heading into a charity function. Frankly, with where my love life is right now, I probably shouldn’t be having those types of thoughts at all.
A blush colors my cheeks, and it only adds to my appeal.
Not to toot my own horn, but I’d be any mother’s dream this morning.
I’m deeply involved with New York’s charity circuit, but typically my causes revolve around the arts. I paid twenty grand yesterday to get a last-minute seat at a table for the yearly fundraiser for the New Yorkers for Family Values charity. From the outside, it’s a decent enough organization. But Tanya, a friend from college, tells me it’s super strict to those they help. As in, children from straight, religious upbringings.
No wonder Mrs. Lancaster supports it.
It’s usually ten grand to get a seat at the table. I paid the extra ten to get a seat athers.
After his brutal removal from the Lancaster United building, Justin thinks we should take a step back and regroup.
I say fuck that.
Deb may be unable to help us access Remi in the sky-high tower he’s locked himself away in, but she had no such compunctions when I mentioned cornering his mother for a friendly one on one chat.
I’m late because I didn’t want to risk getting here before her, and having her leave without sitting down when she caught sight of me. I’m not late enough, though, that Mrs. Lancaster can fault me for tardiness or lack of proper manners. Mrs. Jones raised me to play the game, even if I think the rules are pointless. I can see Mrs. Lancaster from where I’m standing at the entryway. The others sitting at her table defer to her status as head of the horde—rank and money still as important today, even without titles being handed from a monarch on high.
Measuring everything that matters to the high society biddies in the circles she runs in, Mrs. Lancaster will always come out on top. Not for the first time in the last few months, I have the unkind thought of wishing that all the old, prejudiced assholes of the world would hurry up and die, so a younger, more caring generation can rise up and rule the world.
Of course, the old, bigoted assholes probably raised discriminatory douche-burgers (Justin’s new favorite word), so the circle will never end. Just begin anew.
“Hello,” an elderly lady with a sweet smile says as I slide into the only empty chair at my designated table. Unsurprising to me, I’m the youngest woman here by several decades. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
She openly examines me from head to toe, and I smile at her serenely while allowing her to judge. She offers me her hand, and I set my basic nude—yet disgustingly expensive—clutch down on the table before pivoting on my chair and taking her hand.
“Julia Williams,” I introduce myself, smiling at the table. “I’m friends with Mrs. Lancaster.” I smile broadly in her direction. “Or her son, more accurately. Remi, my husband and I all went to college together, and we’ve been entwined ever since.” I wait the appropriate amount of time for the expected oohs and aahs and obscure familial connections. Mrs. Lancaster’s eyes flare in anger at my purposeful use of language, letting the biddies at the table run their imaginations wild.
“Barbara recommended Family Values as an organization worthy of my time and money, so I thought I’d check it out for myself.”
I’ve never used her given name. But here, today—at this table? We’re even. She doesn’t outrank me. If she wants to get out the measuring sticks and scales, I’d most likely win that fight.
