According to Emily Post, the ideal hostess is a cross between mind reader and angel, fulfilling her duties in a flawless yet seemingly effortless manner. I know this to be true, having reviewed the passage myself this very morning. Etiquette, Chapter XXV, “The Country House and Its Hospitality.”
Now, with forty-five minutes until the guests arrive, the caterer running late, and the booze deliverymen “delivering” only half the order, I have come to a conclusion.
Emily Post is an old, dead cunt who doesn’t know shit about here and now.
And where the hell are the monogrammed napkins?
When I was first told who was coming, I’d been surprised to say the least.
For one, Daddy never called unless the matter was of the utmost importance. The moment Father came up on the caller ID—from his private line, no less, which was reserved for dignitaries, former presidents, multicorp CEOs, and me, Annalise Hoff, his sole heir and prized possession—I’d raced for the phone. My mind leapt to the most horrific of possibilities: heart attack. Fed raid.
But Daddy was as blasé as could be.
“Put together a thing,” he’d said offhandedly, and I could picture him reclining in the private jet, or in his sleek midtown office, ice cubes clinking in his tumbler of scotch. “A cocktail party. No big deal. Just a couple of people. Can you throw something together at the East Hampton house?”
My heart soared. We hadn’t had guests since Mother’s mania-fueled exodus to Palm Beach over a year ago. Not that she’d ever been much of a hostess, seeing how her idea of a scintillating evening was a handful of pills, a disruptive state, and an intravenous flow of the Soap network.
“Of course, Daddy!” I’d practically squealed. Restrain yourself, I thought, though even my toenails felt giddy.
Then came surprise number two: the guest of honor. Todd Evergreen.
“I want to get the kid seen, make him feel welcome,” Daddy said.
“I’ll see to absolutely everything,” I responded, my voice projecting calm assurance.
“Good. And, Annalise?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“Intimate. Got it?”
“Absolutely.” I said, calculating the square footage of the formal gardens and the placement options for the sailcloth tent rental as I hung up.
A party, planned by me! A real, live social event! This was the moment I had been waiting for. I have a million things to do, I thought. This is going to be the event of the season! Forget Guest of a Guest, this would be a society-page feature! The notoriously reclusive Gerald Hoff was finally opening his doors, letting in the world to see . . . Todd Evergreen?
None of this made any sense, and that part the least.
Granted, Evergreen was rich—and even more so since Daddy had bought up the Rock Exchange. The press was having a field day with the whole thing. But why would Daddy finally let down the moat for some computer geek?
I know Daddy thought him a savvy businessman, having heard for myself in the days leading up to the sale. But as Daddy often said himself, “Business is business, kiddo. They’re my clients, not my friends.”
Todd Evergreen, I thought happily, must be an exception.
The week he closed the Rock Exchange, Daddy had holed up in his study, only emerging to shower, his voice booming all the way from the east wing as he championed the merits of Evergreen to anyone who would listen, i.e., potential stockholders and his board of directors.
I regularly stopped by under the guise of ice restocking, secretly fearing I would find him dead of a aneurysm or, even worse, having lost the deal.
That is what he lived for, after all. The Kill. I understood that. In many ways, I was just the same.
Besides, I wanted to keep abreast of developments, seeing as how this was my legacy he was negotiating. And then there was the décor!
One of the perks to Mother’s retreat? Daddy had given me permission to begin an overall revamp of the estate, which I saw as a slow but sure erasure of her very existence. By the time I was done, every remnant would be disposed of, every dead skin cell wiped away.
Daddy had other concerns, I suppose. Inevitably, I would find him pacing the leather-and-mahogany oasis—I had achieved Ralph Lauren meets Downton Abbey fox-hunt-with-a-modern-edge perfectly—while ranting into his hands-free.
“Cross-platform, transmedia hub, but take it up a notch. This is Kickstarter with a hitch. You don’t just invest, you own a piece.” I refilled the ice bucket—hand-sculpted Gucci with rustic appeal, the handles knotted leather—and then straightened up his desk a bit. Daddy didn’t seem to notice, he was that worked up. “Let me put this in context. Every music-snob schmuck sayin’, ‘Listen to this group, I discovered ’em?’ Now they really did, even own a piece of the pie. It’s like going from groupie to part-time manager overnight, you gettin’ this?”
Daddy unbent paper clips as he talked, reforming them into circles. “Those Instagram kids raised fifty mil before they sold to Facebook.” He aimed one clip at the elk-antler chandelier. “Evergreen raised one fifty.” The metal circle flew, catching on a point.
There had to be forty of them, at least.
“Kid can sell, I’ll give him that. But he also knows a sure thing. And imagine what happens when we take that shit public.” Then he noticed me. “Hey, baby.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“No, not you,” he bellowed into the headset. “What, ya think I’m a queer? I’ll call you back.” He clicked a button and smiled at me.
“You did not need to hang up, Daddy.”
“Courtesy call. He’ll do what I say.”
“How is it going?”
“Not bad.” He sat down, stretching back in his walnut, leather desk chair. “But tell me what you think. You Rock Exchange it like the rest of the kids?”
“Some of my friends have invested. But I prefer my interest not dependent on some guitar-playing hippies living out of their vans.”
A moment, then Daddy roared with laughter. “You’re something else, baby. I’ll tell ya.”
I grinned. I had not seen him this happy in a long time. One year, eleven months, and twelve hours, to be exact.
The day of Mother’s relocation.
Still chuckling, he aimed, shot, and hooked another paper-clip circle.
“I really wish you wouldn’t, Daddy. That was handmade.”
“Oh yeah? How much it cost me?”
“Ten thousand. Give or take.”
“For some fucking antlers?”
“Language, Daddy!”
“I coulda gone on safari for that. Gotten you a whole herd.”
“Different species. Besides, it is the craftsmanship you are paying for.”
He grinned at me. “I’ll close this today, just you see. And, Annalise?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“This one’s gonna be big.”
The party, I knew, was about something far greater than some tech nerd with a clever start-up.
After all these years of self-imposed isolation, of battling Mother’s mania, Daddy was finally letting the world in.
Daddy is a whiz with the numbers, but the game is my responsibility. And I knew, with Mother finally out of the picture, we would be unstoppable. I’m talking private club invites, Hoff endowments and our name on the side of buildings.
Life would be one long gala, with yours truly hosting.
It wouldn’t come easy, but I’d done the preparation. Good, seeing as how I had two hundred years to make up for. Unlike my boyfriend, Miller Crawford III, my ancestors didn’t take a little vacay cruise on the Mayflower. They were like everyone else, sailing coach class to Ellis Island.
To many, the odds would appear insurmountable. But, as my father is fond of saying, “Odds are for pussies. I don’t play them, my baby. I make them.”
This weekend would go perfectly. Every detail would sparkle with sophistication, from the artfully manicured privet hedges to the gold-embossed place cards. I would welcome people from the veranda, our two-point-seven-acre, six-bedroom, seven-point-five-bath, French-château-inspired estate rising, majestic, behind me.
The party will be held in the gardens, I decide quickly, with the shade trellis dripping over multilevel stone terraces, the squash courts and parterre open to strolling visitors. And yet, I will limit bathroom access to the second level of the house, the route requiring guests to pass the sitting room and the paneled library, the home theater, the billiards room, and the high-tech gym and sumptuously decorated master suite.
The enormous estate was a concession prize, of course, after Daddy forced me to move from the city. The Hamptons are calm, he’d said, citing their off-season offering of tranquillity and restfulness.
In other words? Boring. As. Shit.
Daddy could not have cared less about the calm; what he wanted was to minimize the opportunity for Mother to make public scenes requiring police intervention. She had already been banned from Bloomies for slapping a salesgirl, Tiffany’s for a fit of hysterics that had resulted in several shattered glass displays, and the corner bodega for shoplifting, among other useless items, forty-five Mars bars.
I had found the stash myself and felt a flush of relief. She’s got an eating disorder! I had thought, elated. And this nut-job act is just a cover!
I mean, we lived on the Upper East Side. Binging and purging was practically a hobby, Ladies Who Lunch discussing their various techniques over manicure tables.
Then I found the thirty-eight Bic lighters, eighteen Our Lady of Guadalupe candles, and sixty-six packets of superglue. Mother wasn’t just crazy but a kleptomaniac to boot.
This enormous estate, Daddy had believed, would make everything better. Unfortunately, that was to be impossible with her inside it.
But now the gates had swung open, the house and I finally allowed to breathe. And this party? The perfect showcase for real estate and hostess.
Miller would be reminded of my many charms; Daddy’s girlfriend, Candace, affirmed in her decision to be my debutante sponsor.
And Daddy himself? He’d finally see the full extent of my capabilities. Pretty soon, he’d agree to a year off college and a position at The Set, even make me a fashion editor. And if anyone blamed nepotism, they could fuck themselves. My father can do what he wants. After all, it’s his magazine.
At 5:42 a.m., I wake with a confident smile. The world is my oyster, I think, only I’ll turn that pearl into a flawless-cut, six-carat Harry Winston.
At 6:02 a.m., after my brief tête-à-tête with Ms. Post, I review my daily words of inspiration.
To be excellent begins with aligning your thoughts and words. That one is from Oprah, who started out as a crack baby and now has a $52 million estate in Montecito, California, she calls the Promised Land.
I might be wrong about the crack-baby part, but I’m sure it was something equally as sucky. I know the house part is true, though. And despite the tacky moniker, that’s the part that really matters.
At 6:22, I spend twelve minutes engaged in yogic breathing, which offers both relaxation and abdominal toning. Simultaneously, I send eight texts and a Snapchat to Miller. Above all, I am a firm believer in multitasking.
At 6:34, I open the curtains and let in the Hamptons. Then I chug eight ounces of water, pop a Zannie, and head toward the bathroom.
You make your own destiny, I chant as I go. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it.
I put Beyoncé on the waterproof sound system, rinse my hair until every strand squeaks, and then have my morning date with the hydrotherapy spray nozzle. I have to give myself kudos for choosing the digital spa, even though Daddy had been a little miffed at the expenditure. In the end, he’d forgiven me, as I knew he would. After all, I have good taste; the oil-rubbed bronze fixtures are completely yummy. And the water pressure? Magic.
Stress relief is a nonnegotiable.
Getting myself off is easy. There isn’t much time, so I go to my standby fantasy, the one where my boyfriend, Miller Crawford III, fucks me in a public location. Preferably one that is both unsavory and unsanitary in nature. Where should it be today? A movie theater, perhaps?
No, I think. A bar bathroom. Some really sordid bar in some waste of a place. The East Village, perhaps. And Miller pulls me inside a stall, hiking up my dress, and calls me an uppity bitch. . . .
In real life, Miller treats me as though I were as delicate as a rare orchid. In his eyes, I’m the antithesis of those UGG-wearing skank whores in his class at Columbia. I’m worth care because I’m valuable. But sometimes, you just don’t want gentle.
Not that I hadn’t tried to change that.
Last year Miller and I had been in Daddy’s Trump International apartment after a graceful—and early—exit from Winter Formal, which was a disaster of nuclear proportions. My infantile schoolmates could shell out for makeup artists and Privé updos as well as anyone, but the whole monstrosity was still an homage to tastelessness. That’s what happens when the decorating committee chair is a scholarship student who favors Express over Prada and the formal dinner is supplied by a midlevel kosher caterer. Fuck Shannah Rhineberg and her agenda, I had thought. Since her father had endowed the new Audiovisual Center last Christmas, the administration would wipe her ass if so requested. I mean, I saw her bat mitzvah on that reality show, and I could have sworn I saw a ham on the buffet table.
Anyway, back to the Trump. I don’t think Daddy had seen this place since the Realtor bought it. A tax write-off, he said, handing me his Palladium. Go ahead and put some stuff in. By the time I’d finished, he had a crash pad fit for Architectural Digest.
True, the Trump element is a tad garish, and I could do without all that black glass and bronze in the lobby. I’d have preferred Park Avenue, but Daddy is old friends with the Donald, a perfectly nice man even with décor preferences that scream tycoon compensating for extraordinarily small penis.
On the plus side were the floor-to-ceiling windows and the spectacular view. From the forty-fourth floor, the city seems laid on a platter, just waiting to be eaten.
It wasn’t easy, but I’d convinced Daddy to allow me residence during the school week. His guilt over our relocation had helped. I’d cited statistical averages on New York prep schools versus those in the Hamptons, promising to return every weekend. In the end, he’d agreed, just as I had predicted.
As for Mother, she wasn’t even consulted.
Now that she was gone, Daddy had chilled a bit, and I could sometimes finagle a Saturday as well. Especially good since Winter Formal fell on one.
“Do you think my father would donate a wing to the school?” I wondered aloud as I teetered over to the Eames sofa in Daddy’s living room. I was slurring but not sloppy.
“No way,” Miller said. “He’s way too gangster for that. Dude knows how to spend his money. I mean, just look at this place. That sound system is sick!” Miller turned up the volume.
Who cares about a stupid dance? I had thought. This is so much better. Even if I had to hear some thug wannabe rhapsodize about banging his bitches at a crazy decibel.
Miller’s taste in music was questionable, but I had been drunk enough that it did not matter. Neither did some dance more fit for a Hilton off the Jersey turnpike than the Plaza.
What mattered? That my boyfriend was überrich and looked supersexy in his Tom Ford tuxedo. Half a tux, really. He’d taken off his shirt an hour earlier and was now reciting lyrics and fist-pumping to the beat like some Staten Island frat boy. And still, he was completely yummy. Cut from those years of crew team and tan even in winter. He had lost his gym card but not the six-pack. Just like his pedigree, he’d been born with it.
Miller was perfection. Throw in tackle football, gay him up a little, and he could shoot a campaign for Ralph Lauren.
God, I want to fuck him.
It had been a month since he’d even fingered me, and I hardly saw him since he’d started Columbia. Not that I was sitting around waiting. Between college apps and field hockey and heading up various school organizations, I had plenty of obligations.
Still.
I took a gulp from my drink. I had been waiting weeks for tonight, and it sure wasn’t for the Euro-trash DJ.
Only one question remained: What the hell was Miller’s problem?
Here I was in a fully loaded penthouse with no parental guidance and plenty of sexual frustration. If you didn’t know better, I could have been the poster child for needy rich-girl slut who confuses fucking with affection. I was a masturbation fantasy and somehow my boyfriend had not noticed.
I leaned on the sofa in a way that was both fetching and cleavage enhancing, so much so that it bordered on nip slip. C’mon, Miller, I thought. Get off your ass and take advantage of me.
Instead, he popped another beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon. My father had a stocked bar of top-shelf liquor, but Miller thought drinking piss-flavored liquid from cans was somehow subversive.
I could not wait for this “cool” phase to be over.
He chugged the whole thing and reached for another. If he did not get with the game soon, we’d be risking a little stroll into limp-dick territory.
I will not make the first move, I thought. It goes against everything I stand for.
Miller is a Crawford. Landing a Crawford takes strategy. And with great goals, you must make some concessions. Waiting for Miller’s sorry drunk ass to jump me being just one of them.
“Do all boys go through these phases?” I had asked.
“What phases?” he had said, mid-fist-pump.
“Pretending you are from Compton instead of a Connecticut compound?”
“Baby, this isn’t about money. It’s about experience. I’m down with the real world, y’know? Life on the streets.”
The streets of Westport, maybe.
Well, I thought, it could be worse. At least he wasn’t one of those scenesters working the VIP circuit, blowing coke with Kanye at the Boom Boom Room. At least he hadn’t turned dandy, like those steel-heir brothers in their lip gloss and ascots, posing for European cologne campaigns, quoting Warhol in Vanity Fair, and occasionally referring to themselves as “iconoclasts” in the media.
Some things were irreversible.
Miller would be fine, I knew, emerging untainted from his foray into rich-boy thugdom. There wouldn’t be damaging press or drug arrests or reality-show cameos. He could carry on the family legacy, even run for Congress.
I would see to all that.
Miller had never mentioned political aspirations, but I was keeping his options open.
He would outgrow this, just like all his other prep school friends. By the time they hit the Ivies, most readily accept their fate as the future leaders of the free world.
I sipped my Kir Royale. Half ounce crème de cassis, two and a fourth ounces Bollinger. The flute was Glazze crystal, the mix sublime. Identical to the four others that had come before it.
A nugget of morning inspiration rose from my consciousness. For in war just as in loving you must always keep on shoving. General George S. Patton, The Patton Papers.
Fuck this, I thought, making a decision. I drained my drink and rose from the midcentury Danish-designed sofa.
For a second, I wobbled, then found my footing and demanded everything stop spinning. I had a sexy, half-naked boyfriend, dimmed track lighting, and an innocent-schoolgirl-who-secretly-wants-it negligee under my brand-new Stella McCartney.
Forget the mood music. I was ready.
When I had informed Miller of Winter Formal, I could almost hear his eyes roll through the phone. “I’m in college, baby. I don’t have time for that kids’ stuff.”
“What are you so busy doing?”
“I got a full load, Annalise. I’ve got a massive paper due next week.”
Bullshit, I had thought. You haven’t cracked a book all semester. Your father endowed a dorm and ballistics research lab. You could call in a bomb threat to the president and they would just cite “freshman adjustment issues.”
“I’m sorry, baby. There’s just no way.”
Granted, it was not really his decision. I could always get what I wanted, the only question being the method.
Never underestimate the power of pouting or blow jobs, and my talents in both are exemplary.
The latter was not an option. A surprise visit to campus would reek of desperation, and I am sure his dorm already reeks of cum rags and dirty laundry. I had never seen it, not that I wanted to. For now, we spent our quality time at Trump. I had even given him a key.
Not to mention, he would want to reciprocate. While Miller has many excellent qualities, being versed in the oral arts is not among them. It’s jaw calisthenics, as if he were eating a sloppy joe instead of my pussy.
“You understand. Right, baby?” Miller breathed uncomfortably.
Without realizing it, I’d done half the work already. I contemplated the state of my cuticles, letting him suffer.
“Annalise? Are you still there?”
“Mmmmm-hmmmm.” Noncommittal.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t do that to me.”
“Do what?”
“You know what. I hate when you go all quiet like that.”
Another silence. Perfectly weighted, of course.
“I know you’re pissed off at me, baby.”
“Not at all,” I said cheerily. “I know you have priorities.”
“So . . . you’re okay with it?”
“Of course.”
I could practically hear his will breaking.
“But it’s, like, really important to you? Right?”
Time to close the deal. Though only to be used on special occasions, the little-girl voice could work wonders. Forget habit; men, I had come to understand, are creatures of obviousness.
“I just miss you,” I murmured. “That’s all.”
Now Miller was the one sighing. “Oh, baby. Okay. I guess I can . . . I mean, if it means that much to you.”
I hung up the phone feeling strangely unsatisfied. Occasionally I longed for something more. A man who offers a challenge, perhaps.
Stop it, I told myself. A trust fund is far preferable.
One thing about Miller: he was uncomplicated, living up to the expectations I had set for him.
But this time, something was different. Maybe it was his newfound status as an Ivy League student, or perhaps my unexpectedly aggressive behavior.
Maybe it was the Pabst Blue Ribbon.
I did not care the reason; in fact, I did not care about anything. Not that we were rolling around on the crazy-expensive antique Persian or that Miller had ripped the dress I’d practically begged the Bergdorf personal shopper to track down.
Rugs could be dry-cleaned, tailors could work miracles. But what could not be predicted? That my perfect gentleman of a boyfriend would bite my nipples and smack my ass and channel some inner rock-star caveman stud I never knew existed.
This is not how you treat a rare orchid, I thought, reaching into his tuxedo pants like a bulimic going for a carton of Ben & Jerry’s. Control yourself, I said in my head.
Then I didn’t listen.
I was as rough as he, frantically pulling on clothes, then reaching down and gripping him like the StairMaster rail on the steepest incline, pumping him till his wild, glassy eyes were nearly crossing.
He only moaned louder.
I was drunk with black-currant liqueur and power.
Miller growled, pulling me on top of him, gaze unfocused. The rap guy shouted about how good some ho grinded him, but I was pretty sure I’d give her a run for her money.
“You little slut,” moaned Miller.
I could have cried it was so romantic.
You can have it all, I thought, elated. “Pull my hair.”
Miller grunted, tossing his head from side to side. He reached out like a blind man, gripped me by the roots, and pulled.
The sting was ferocious. “Harder,” I ordered. Patton would have loved it.
This time I felt it in my toes. Again, I thought, wanting him to rip every keratin-treated strand out by the socket. “C’mon, damn it. Don’t be a pussy. Harder!”
He grabbed two more generous fistfuls, the rapper shouting about his Glock and humping. “Now,” I hissed. “I want you to hurt me, Miller.”
His name is what did it.
Miller froze as if someone had smacked him across the face. With a crowbar. Suddenly, he was scooting backward, sliding off the Persian. He huddled in a naked ball, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, on the imported Italian floor tiles.
He looked like a horrified little boy. Pathetic, I thought.
“Oh my God, Annalise. I don’t know . . . what I was thinking? Oh my God. Baby. I’m so, so sorry.”
Too late. I could see everything in his perfectly symmetrical face; explanations would be useless.
I wanted to scream at him, slap him across the cheek. Tell him to grow up and fuck me like a man.
Instead, I just looked at him.
“I’ll make it up to you, I swear it. I’d never hurt you, Annalise. Not ever.”
He was right. He didn’t have the balls.
I’ll worry about physical fulfillment when I’m chairing the Met Ball, I thought. For now, a $500 showerhead would have to suffice.
I know: Freud would have a field day with me. I don’t take the short bus, after all. I have a Bentley waiting.
Refreshed, I turn off the water, squeeze the excess moisture from my hair, and cover myself head to toe in La Mer.
Wrapped in a fluffy towel, I stare at myself in the mirror.
The girls at school may think I’m cold and calculating, even scary, but the boys think something else entirely. I drop my towel, observe myself naked from every angle.
My boobs are on the larger side of B. Not huge, but perky, the nipples pointed upward like they’re smiling at you. My butt is round and tight from all the field hockey, and my hair naturally glossy, a proven indicator of health and vitality.
A hot piece of ass, that’s what guys think. And for that I am eternally grateful. Still, I go by the use it or lose it theory. Self-maintenance is an imperative.
Another case in point: my mother.
In preparation for today, I had every hair waxed off my body, even the ones I didn’t know existed. On Tuesday, I had my arches done by that Fifth Avenue eyebrow guru, who’d run his fingertips across them for half an hour, as though hypnotizing the follicles. In the end, he’d plucked four hairs and charged my father’s Centurion $200. Magic. A waste of time, even if Lady Gaga is a client.
On Thursday, a new dress from Escada and a French manicure. The dress is classic, the polish subtle. Sexy is overrated.
I sigh. The reflection staring back at me is purely my own, and utterly satisfactory.
Tonight I will put this to good use, I think. Tonight I will make everything happen.
At 6:45 a.m., the Hamptons morning was ripe with promise, my calendar painstakingly scheduled. Now, I’m aware that I missed a notation:
3:37 p.m. Commence with Shitfest of Epic Proportions.
Now, with the guests nearly here, I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I contemplate popping another Xanax. Then I do it.
I’m in the kitchen, frantically cutting crudités and hating everyone. Especially the caterer, whose car had an issue. The muffler, she texts me. On my way.
You better be, I think, or have a good lawyer.
Outside, the tent is erected, the servers wasting time until the food arrives, probably ashing their cigarettes in the koi pond and dipping into the liquor. The half order, since the booze-delivery guys fucked up, insisting there is a Dom drought in the greater Hamptons vicinity and thereby forcing me to send Dimitri, Daddy’s security guy, to fetch resources.
Four hours later, Dimitri has not returned and I’m chopping limp, moldy vegetables to the faint strains of Beethoven.
At least the string quartet showed.
I know exactly whom I can blame for the state of the vegetables: Renata, who does not consider food shopping to be part of her household responsibilities. In fact, her sole obligation seem to be leading an online chat group for sexually confused Latino teenagers and ordering shit off the Home Shopping Network.
As for her sexuality, I’d rather not think about it. But all arrows point to bull dyke with a big-ass attitude and ax to grind.
“Renata!” I yell through the chopping. It’s the fifth time I’ve called her, and I know for a fact the bitch heard me.
“Sí, Missus Annalise?” Renata says sweetly. I glance up and nearly hack off a finger. I can see she’s disappointed that I didn’t.
“Have you seen the monogrammed napkins?”
“¿Qué?”
“The napkins. The cloth ones? With the initials? I’ve looked everywhere.”
She stares at me blankly.
“Never mind. The caterer is late. Have you seen to the flower arrangements?”
“No comprende. Speak more slow.”
“Forget the flowers, okay? I’ll do it. But what about the guest bedroom?”
She just opens her eyes wider.
I know her game. She speaks English as well as I do, and I’m pretty sure she’s to blame for the wine-cellar shortage. The reason I had to call the delivery guys after the weekenders had already wiped out the selection.
One thing about the Hamptons: besides tennis and deep-sea fishing, boozing and pills are the preferred pastime. “I asked you to make up the guest room. Yesterday.”
“No, I do not think so.”
“Yup, I’m pretty sure.”
She sighs. I’ll bet she’s never even been to Guatemala. Probably born and raised in Hoboken. No matter how many times I ask, Daddy refuses to fire her. He feels guilty, I figure, since Mother adored her. As much as that agoraphobic, drugged-out whack job was capable of loving anything besides her pill collection.
I feel the heat rise to my face and wonder, for the gazillionth time, if crazy runs in the family. Maybe it’s already laser-cut into my DNA, and one day it will bubble up from inside. Just like that, I’ll go from Junior Class Prefect with a 3.87 GPA (fuck that granola art teacher. B-minus? She wears Crocs, for fucksake. What does she know about aesthetics?) and morph into Girl, Interrupted.
Don’t get distracted, Annalise. I glare at Renata, trying to keep focus.
I feel the fury boiling.
One of the tests by which to distinguish between the woman of breeding and the woman merely of wealth, is to notice the way she speaks to dependents.
Post again, that deluded ho-bag. Easy to say when the help doesn’t harbor murder fantasies about you. Renata blames me for my mother’s leaving.
She’s right, of course. Still.
This is a test. Everything is a test. Fuck Emily Post. What I need is a real-live role model, not a cold, dead corpse, pinkie still pointed while six feet under.
Then it comes to me: What would Kate Middleton do?
I place the knife gently on the counter, forcing my lips into a placid smile. “Now, Renata,” I say with a firm, regal calmness. “As I’m sure you are well aware, my father has put a great deal of trust on those serving in his employ. And if he became aware of their neglect, I am sure he would be most unhappy. The same is true of their misuse of his generosity.”
She stares at me blankly.
“Meaning,” I hiss, “I tell him you don’t do shit around here except watch TV and drink all our fucking liquor. And that you took the La Perla bras from my mother’s closet.”
A pause. Got her on the bra one. I’d been saving that for a special occasion. “Where you put the sheets?”
I knew she understood English.
“To the left of the bed. Brand-new, still in the package.” One-thousand-twenty-thread-count sateen, I think. Woven in Italy. For what I paid, I could buy your illegal Guatemalan cousins. That is, if you weren’t from Jersey. “And don’t forget to mop the adjoining bathroom and put out fresh towels.”
She glares, lips pinched into white lines. Then she turns on her heels and exits. A loud buzz. The intercom. A high, childlike voice.
“Annalise. Could you come up here, please? I need you.”
I can hear Renata snort all the way from the foyer.
Regroup, Annalise. Don’t lose it.
I stabilize myself on the edge of the counter and attempt to ward off the impending panic. What you need is some positive fucking self-talk. Or do you want to throw away years of planning, loser?
You are a Hoff, Annalise. There are expectations
I will do this because there is no other choice. I will do this because it was destined.
Rockefeller, Astor, Vanderbilt, Hoff. Rockefeller, Astor, Vanderbilt, Hoff. Rockefeller, Astor, Vanderbilt, Hoff.
I chant with each heel click to the French-limestone staircase.
At the top, a cry rings out. “Are you coming, Annalise?”
Candace.
While the little girl voice can be effective on select occasions, as a lifestyle choice it is only fit for B-list actresses and strippers. “Annalise?”
I forgot one. Lilliput. And when a Lilliput beckons, you have no choice but to follow orders.
Candace Lilliput is wearing a push-up bra and thong bikini. The thong part is in front and consists of a strand of pearls pushed into her Brazilian-waxed coochie.
“Will he like it?” she says, biting her bottom lip and posing for me. Sometimes I wonder if my future stepmother wants to fuck me. Then I remember I’m not special; Candace Lilliput is equal-opportunity slutty.
She’s also heir to an international-banking fortune and sponsoring my debutante status. At least, she says she is. As of yet, I haven’t received the official invitation.
Glad I took that second Zannie.
“Of course,” I tell her, forcing myself not to turn in disgust. “It’s adorable.”
“The pearls are from Tahiti.”
“An excellent use of their most valuable export.”
“Please don’t call me Annie.”
“Sorry, darling,” she says flippantly, then stands in front of the three-way vanity carefully examining every angle. “I just want to make your daddy happy.”
“You do.” You’re low-maintenance, sexually available, and have double-D titties. He’s rich and busy. OkCupid couldn’t have worked this better.
Then again, I’m the one who introduced them. And, yes, I knew exactly what I was doing.
“Especially tonight,” she says. “This is the first time he’s introduced me to a client. Do I have cellulite?”
“You have to have fat to have cellulite.”
“I don’t know. I see something. Maybe I should get that Pilates pro from the club. All the girls say he’s a genius.”
Probably because they’re all fucking him, I think.
“But getting an appointment is near impossible.”
I nod sympathetically. Since the squash pro gave everyone HPV, the Pilates guy has been busier than ever.
“I just don’t want him to lose interest.”
“He’s utterly infatuated with you, Candace.”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t paid as much attention as usual.”
She stares at herself, waiting for me to speak. Waiting for my advice. My mind has gone blank. Perhaps the second Xanax is kicking in. “I just want tonight to go absolutely perfectly,” she adds hopefully.
Just then, I do something I never do. Something I find wholly reprehensible.
“Annie? Why are you crying?”
Then my eyes are blurry. All I can make out is flesh rushing at me. She’s got me in her vise grip and is leading me to the bed, wrapping her stick arms around me. I almost forget she’s naked, that’s how embarrassing this is.
Don’t be a pussy, Annalise. Tears are for little girls and weaklings. Get it together!
I try to stand, but she pulls me back down. She’s pretty strong for someone with borderline anorexia.
“I have so much to do,” I tell her, nauseated at my own blubbering. “That’s all. And it’s only forty-five minutes until the guests—”
“It’ll be fine, darling. I promise.” She rocks me in her arms, which is thoroughly clichéd and disgusting. And for some reason, I don’t mind it.
“I just want everything to go as planned. The caterer is late and I haven’t done the table and—”
“Why are you so worried?” She holds me by the shoulders and stares at me. Instantly, her confusion turns to a knowing smile.
“I know what this is about. It’s Crawford, isn’t it? You heard the rumors.”
“What rumors?”
She looks like I smacked her. Then she rushes over to the mirror, giggles, and nervously applies lipstick.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t care if her family name is on esteemed institutions, I do not have the energy for my vapid, possibly inbred future stepmother’s imbecilic behavior.
“What rumors, Candace?” I shriek. If Kate Middleton heard, she’d find me terribly common. And she can go fuck herself, right along with Candace and the caterer and everyone else who has turned my triumphant day into a big shit-a-palooza.
“He’s been spotted with quite a few other women,” she says matter-of-factly. “The dismissible sort. And of course, that’s only gossip. But these rumors tend to have some truth to them, and I’ve heard from quite a few sources.” She does not turn from the vanity. Her reflection is one of regal disinterest. I’ve broken a rule and I know it.
Society Rule Number One: Never lose control of your emotions.
“But not to worry, sweetie. Men have these silly proclivities. Which is why you must work hard to keep their interest.” She turns her head from side to side, examining her work. “Let me finish my face. Then I’ll help you clean up the little hostess mess you’ve made. It will all be just fine, Annie. Things have a way of working out exactly as expected.”
She turns and smiles, lipstick applied with razor-sharp precision. “Pearls are Tahiti’s main export, you say? Isn’t that just fascinating?”