AN HOUR LATER CELESTE IS sitting at an outside table at Gott’s in the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, waiting for Lily Lau to appear. As soon as Erica Sparks left, she called Lily. The two met in a Chinese history class their freshman year at Stanford, where the professor’s passion for the subject—coupled with Lily’s brilliance and beauty—ignited Celeste’s fascination with China. And Lily was hardly averse to having smart and socially connected Celeste in her orbit. That first day they went out for lunch after class and bonded immediately, kindred spirits. Their relationship has since evolved into something profound. Transcendent. And they’re just getting started.
The restaurant, famous for its mahi-mahi sandwiches, is thick with tacky tourists; it’s loud and chaotic, and just blocks from the office of Pierce Holdings. Celeste finds the hubbub amusing—it’s fun to observe the masses in their element.
She spots Lily as she approaches the restaurant—she’s hard to miss. Tall and striking with jet black hair and pearly skin set off with glistening red lipstick, she’s wearing a white shirt, a thin black men’s tie, and a dark suit that fits her toned body like a second skin. Her limbs are long and she moves with a lithe, powerful grace. The stupid little tourists stop and watch as she walks by. They’re not used to Chinese superstars in Loserville, Indiana.
Celeste and Lily smile at each other, and Celeste feels that frisson of excitement that Lily always elicits in her. They’re partners in . . . what would you call it? Rewriting history? That sounds so immodest, Celeste thinks. But it’s the truth.
Lily sits down. “Would you like something to eat?” Celeste asks.
Lily waves off the suggestion—she and food have a tenuous relationship. “How did it go with Sparks?”
“It was going well. Then my mentee took the dogs for a walk, and Jasper was run over and killed.”
“I’m sorry, Celeste. I’ll send you a replacement.”
“I’ll stick with two for the time being—the yapping was getting on my nerves. So Sparks left early. But not before leaving an impression. She’s very smart.”
“Intelligence is a two-sided coin.”
“And very curious.”
“Another mixed blessing. Look what happened to that poor cat. Speaking of mice, how is Mike doing?”
“He’s behaving.”
The two women exchange tight smiles. They were in their early thirties, their plans already hatched, when Mike came into their sights. They’d been casting around for the right figurehead—someone attractive, electable, and malleable. A modern-day Ronald Reagan. Someone they could nurture and . . . mold. Congressman Mike Ortiz seemed like the perfect vehicle for their ambitions. And so Celeste went to that fateful fundraiser. She wore a tight black dress and just enough bling to make her sizzle, and introduced herself, wide-eyed and admiring. Of course he knew who she was, what she could do for his career with her wealth and network, but no one was faking the chemistry. They made a dinner date for the following night. It was the shortest dinner on record—why, they practically ran from the restaurant to Celeste’s Russian Hill penthouse, desire pulsing between them. The following morning, when he left for some dull community meeting in his district, Celeste immediately called Lily. The trap had sprung. And the rest, as they say, is history. No, herstory. No, no, theirstory. Lily and Celeste. Celeste and Lily.
“That suit is sharp. Tom Ford?” Celeste asks.
“Tom Ford is for wannabes. Dries Van Noten. I flew him over to fit me. I ordered three.”
“I wish I could get away with an outfit like that. But I’m not sure it would fly at my next Iowa pig roast.”
“Aren’t you going to have to come up with some recipes for deep-fried hot dogs?”
The two women laugh, a secret shared laugh, a laugh filled with scorn and dark corners. Hidden corners. They sit in an easy triumphant silence for a moment.
“So, what are we going to do about our feline friend?” Celeste asks.
“We need her and want her—up to a point. But we have to watch her carefully. Closely. The eyes—and ears—have it.” Lily stands up and scans the scene with a look of bemused noblesse oblige. Let them eat mahi-mahi. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
Celeste watches her as she strides away. Celeste hates weak, emotional women. Quivery little cows. They disgust her. Lily, on the other hand, she idolizes. Her sangfroid has sangfroid. Even though they’re the same age, Lily is really her mentor, her teacher. She took Celeste by the hand and led her into . . . a brave new world.
Then some obese creature in a sparkly sweatshirt approaches.
“I love your husband!” the woman screeches.
Please, dear God, don’t let her touch me. Celeste wants to say: Get off the feed bag, you oinker. What she does say, with a warm smile, is, “So do I.”
“He’s going to be pressss-ident!” the woman cries, a small chunk of half-chewed French fry flying out of her mouth.
Celeste smiles serenely and says, “Yes. Yes, he is going to be president.”