chapter 6

“A dollop of heaven.”

“The best party of the year.”

Joan Coddington and Wendy Marshall, two of society’s biggest gossips, were nestled quite snugly into their corner booth at Orsay sipping piping hot lattes while the snow fell softly outside. A week had passed, but they were still so overcome with the grandiose, Mount Olympus scale of Lell Pelham’s wedding, that its dissection was now entering week two. Plus, it was February, so there wasn’t much else going on.

“The individual wedding cakes!” said Joan dramatically.

“Nine hundred of them! Three tiers! Interlocking white chocolate L’s and W’s! Can you even imagine the cost?” asked Wendy, who had already tried to tally it up on three separate occasions.

“The sterling silver picture frames with that darling Patrick Demarchelier portrait of Lell and Willoughby—”

“At every place setting. Not to mention the gift bags—”

“I wore the Hermès scarf yesterday. So thoughtful.”

“It was the wedding of the year,” nodded Wendy.

“It was better than the Goodyears’,” pronounced Joan. And with that, she silenced her dining companion. There could be no greater compliment than to have outdone the lavish extravaganza that Nigel and Sandra Goodyear had recently hosted in Antigua for their beauty-challenged daughter Kitty.

“You’re right,” concurred Wendy. “It kicked that tropical paradise crap in spades. Sunshine can be so tacky sometimes.”

“The worst! Mmmm. New York. Winter white. To die for.”

 

Across the room, Polly Mecox was lunching with Hope Matthews when Franny Corcoran stopped by their table to say hello.

“Was that fantastic or what?” boomed Franny, the rotund paper clip heiress who was also the leader of the thirty-five–ish social clique, just above Polly’s gang.

“It’s just such a letdown that it’s over!” moaned Polly. “It was like, the only thing I was looking forward to for a year, and now it’s finished!”

“You did also have a child this year,” said Hope, smiling.

“You know what I mean,” said Polly.

“Will Banks was the most handsome groom! And he’s such a flirt, that Lell better watch out for him,” said Franny with a mischievous glimmer.

“I think she can handle him,” said Polly. As if a fatso like you has a chance, she wanted to add. In her dreams.

“Welllll, I’m off to the Carlyle. Are you going to Nina’s trunk show? She has the cutest monogrammed linens, totally hand-stitched and imported. Dreamy. Perfect wedding or birthday presents,” said Franny.

“We’ll be there later,” said Polly.

“Bye-bye, then.”

After Franny had moved on to another table (and then another, each time talking loudly enough that the entire restaurant knew where she was going next and what she thought about Nina’s linens), Hope motioned to the waiter to ask for the check.

“Already?” whined Polly.

“I can’t go to the trunk show, I have to take Chip to Diller-Quayle.”

“Can’t you let the nanny?”

“No I can’t let the nanny! He loves it! It’s our thing.”

“Whatever. It’s like, you and all of Trinidad.”

Hope pretended not to hear this. “Why don’t you bring Quint over later and we can have a playdate with Chip?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. It’s snowing and he has his schedule.” Polly didn’t quite know what her son’s schedule was, but since her nanny took care of it, she didn’t really pay much attention.

“So, Lelly and Will are back a week from Friday. I can’t wait to hear the deets on the honeymoon,” said Hope.

“Yes. But why Bali? I have zero desire to go to Asia, it seems so . . . dirty. The heat and the pollution, imagine the stench? Like New York in August. And aren’t there, like, bombs going off hourly?”

“I think it seems exotic. I’d love to go someday.”

“Well, I’m just psyched for Willoughby’s birthday party. Everything is so boring lately, it will be fun to have something to do.”

“I can’t believe that Lell’s throwing such a huge party right after her wedding. The poor thing must be exhausted.”

“There’s nothing else to do. Plus, let’s face it, you know she’s inviting W and Vogue’s photographers to cover it, she’s fully vying for that ‘Girl of the Moment’ page.”

Hope was sometimes scared of Polly. Polly was supposed to be Lell’s best friend on earth, but she always slashed her Lady Macbeth–style, and was extremely hard on her at every opportunity. Hope hated to play these games. She knew that Polly was insecure, that if Freud were to analyze her he’d blame everything on her missing father who basically split early in Polly’s life, and her mother, who couldn’t’ve cared less about her. It was really sad, and probably the reason that Polly was unable to bond with her own child. But regardless, she did wonder from time to time if she was Polly’s personal voodoo doll when she wasn’t around to share salads. Why would she be spared when so many others were eviscerated so swiftly? Hope’s only solution was to never respond to Polly’s comments. Instead, she just signed the credit card bill, swallowing hard and wondering how two Cobbs and two glasses of wine somehow got to $94.

Polly looked out at the downy falling flakes and sighed. “I swear, Hope, I need a new project. I totally have those mid-winter blahs.”

“Why don’t you get a job?”

“Yeah, right.” As if. Well, she could pull a Susie Kincaid and start a jewelry line or handbag company. Or not. Why be hawking your own shit when you can buy other people’s? Plus staging some trunk show in a hotel suite was not for her—she knew she was not suited to any kind of service business. Then she remembered the project she’d toyed with at the wedding.

Polly smiled at Hope. “Well, I do have some idea of what I want to do. I think I’ll do something dramatic this time.”

“Okay, Miss Cryptic.”

“You’ll see. It’s time to shake things up a bit.”

“Drama, huh? Taking acting lessons?”

Polly shook her head slyly. No, she wouldn’t be fretting her hour upon the stage, full of sound and fury. She preferred to be quietly holding the marionette strings high above, the one who watched overhead, enjoying a lofty view of those toiling below. And little did her dear posse know, they were about to be players in her perfect mid-winter game.