23
“Love is a fire. But whether it’s going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell.”
—Joan Crawford
Lars and Emma’s chauffeur-driven Cadillac Escalade was outside waiting for me, and though I was basically in an armored urban tank, I felt vulnerable. Not since I went stag with all my girlfriends to my junior prom was I so gussied up without a hand to hold. When we got to Cipriani on Forty-second Street, my heart started to pound as I entered the grand ballroom—a former bank with such exquisitely ornate architecture, it was truly a landmark treasure. Flashbulbs flew as many high-profile trustees of the charity—from Harvey Weinstein to the CEO of General Electric to the heads of every major investment bank and the hedge fund elite—swarmed in, seeking their calligraphied cards of table assignments.
I milled around the cocktail hour a bit awkwardly by my lonesome, but a delicious bellini took the edge off, as did some caviar (Kiki always called us “the Roe Hos”). As I happily sipped my peach-infused champagne, I noticed a pair of green eyes trained on me. They belonged to a familiar-looking guy, though I had no idea who he was. He was extremely attractive—but not in that pretty-boy, too-angular way where they’re so hot that everyone notices; he had that special kind of gleam that made him appealing in a warm, cuddly way. A total grade-A nugget.
“Hi,” I said, in sixth-grade mode.
“Hi there, Holland, right? I’m Elliot—”
“Yes, hi, how are you?” We shook hands. I knew we’d met, but I couldn’t place him. His green eyes were so amazing, they looked quasi contacty, which would be scary were his smile not so nice.
“I met you very briefly. In the park, with your son?” he responded. “And your friend, Kiki?”
“Oh, yes—” I vaguely recalled Kiki trying to strike up conversation with him. He was very cute. But another 10021 guy? No way. Plus, if he was there, he was obviously in the banking world, which was too close for comfort. No matter what.
It was among my top three bullet points. If I actually went online to do a profile or something, my request for a non-banker would be as much in lights as one for a non-smoker.
“Holly!” I heard behind me. Emma. In full Oscar de la Renta beaded gown to the floor, as if it were the Oscars. But I guess for her it was, since she and her husband were the honorary chairs of the evening and Bill Cunningham from the Times was snapping away for Sunday’s paper.
“Emma, Lars, hi! Thank you so much for having me—this is spectacular!”
As Elliot wandered away, I got caught up in introductions to their friends who would also be at our table, including a widower who was much older. Not my type, as I don’t date dwarves. The poor guy didn’t clear my boobs, so there was no way I’d Katie Holmes over him no matter what elevator shoes he procured from John Lobb. Great, I knew there was some ulterior motive to my being invited. Oh, well. We chatted through the appetizer and I could tell he was a kind man, but clearly we were ill suited. And that would probably be how it was from now on: Match Holly with anyone who can walk. She’s single now, she has a kid, and she’d be lucky to get anyone in this ballroom! Nice.
The evening droned on and there were many speeches about all the good the money was doing, and at one point as I scanned the grand room, zombie-like, I saw a beautiful blonde shamelessly flirting with Elliot. Just as I was about to casually nudge Emma to ask who he was, the spotlight fell upon our table and she and Lars rose to go to the podium to accept a trophy for their generous philanthropic efforts around the city. Le tout Wall Street clapped in their honor and I looked around, noticing the same crew of bedecked wives. Emilia d’Angelo and Mary Grassweather, with glistening wrists covered in diamonds; Posey Smith, who was in Oscar, gave me a wave across the dance floor. I felt a bit of a sting that she had never followed up with me about that glass of wine—we used to spend time alone together as friends, but now I could see she’d moved on. It’s funny, I knew that if I were to go home with and date and marry the geezer next to me, like that other divorcée at our school, I would instantly regain my social standing. My new armor of another wealthy (albeit older) husband would reinstate me as a worthy friend, committee chairperson, trustee of the school or museum or hospital. My haute couture and glittering jewels would be a wearable E-ZPass back into society. But lately, when I saw a huge diamond necklace from Fred Leighton, I wondered: Was it a Forgive Me present? My eyes settled on another neck, covered with canary yellow diamonds from Graff. Was that a Please Take Me Back gift? Was each woman committing to stay for these precious gems, tacitly agreeing to look the other way while their husbands had their cakes and fucked them, too? My mind was reeling when my cell phone beeped with a text message from Kiki, interrupting these musings.
“Does your robot party suck? Meet me at Marion’s on the Bowery.”
Since dessert was being served and I saw a few old fogies and young parents starting to thank their various hosts and bid adieu to their tables, I bolted.
The vibe couldn’t have been more different at the downtown bar, with kitsch galore dangling from the ceiling, loud music, and strong gem-hued cocktails that rivaled those bellinis.
“Holleeeeeee!” Kiki yelled when I walked in, making me feel very much like I had entered Cheers. She had a table in the back with some of her girlfriends whom I’d met before, all very hip and wild, without edit buttons, à la Kiki.
“Holly! Girl, you look fierce!” Eliza, who worked for Vera Wang, so kindly said. “You look much younger, too!”
“Really?”
“That’s ’cause I gave her a total makeover and we got rid of half her stuffy-ass closet,” bragged Kiki, winking at me. “We filled her disgusting Vera Bradley tote with all her preppy crap and torched it. She’s a fox now, right?”
“Total minx,” replied Carrie. “And speak of the devil!” Out walked a nice-looking but younger, like, much younger, guy from the bathroom. “Nick! This is Holly, Kiki’s BFF!” said Eliza.
“Hi, I’m Nick.” He was adorable, but hello? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?
Okay, so I soon discovered he was twenty-eight. But at thirty-four, that felt like waaay too tender an age for me.
“Holly, what can I get you?” he asked. He whipped his sweatshirt off, revealing a white T-shirt and his forearms, which were sleeved in tattoos.
“Um, I’m, uh, not much of a drinker.”
“Come on, don’t make me drink alone—I’m gonna surprise you, how ’bout that?”
“Uh . . .” I looked at Kiki, whose eyes were widened as if to say, Don’t be an idiot, get a drink! So I agreed, though I had to be up bright and early to give tours the next day at Miles’s school.
The next thing I knew I was clinking glasses with Nick and his roommates, all three chefs at various restaurants I had never heard of. And I loved that.
As my eye fell on his tats, he clearly saw me register that they were . . . well . . . in your face. But somehow weirdly appealing.
“This one’s great, isn’t it? My friend Scott Campbell in Williamsburg did it. He’s a fucking artist, man.”
I asked about his cooking, thinking how nice it would be to sit in his kitchen and have him whip up something delicious and have Like Water for Chocolate sex-through-food, minus the whole dying-in-a-fire thing.
I felt myself getting drunk. As in, hammered, old-school-style. I don’t think I ever once lost control in my ten years with Tim—okay, maybe once in a blue moon a little too much champagne at a wedding, but not like this, in black tie, laughing with people in their twenties who didn’t have children. But it felt refreshing. Freeing. I had turned back the clock. At least until my morning hangover, which felt light-years away in the current haze of neon, clinking glasses, and vintage Blondie.
