A flock of tuxedoed waiters slowly placed trays on the long buffet table. On the garden terrace above, the band was rehearsing. The lead singer’s silver dress reflected the afternoon sun as though she were a human disco ball.
“In my life,” she sang softly into the microphone, “I’ve loved you more.” A balding man in a blue suit played a few chords on an electric keyboard, his head well on its way to sunburn.
“Throw me that tablecloth?” Cate asked, glancing at Stella. She set two crystal vases filled with exotic orchids down on the table. Stella picked up the pale green linen and tossed it to Cate, who nodded silently in thanks.
Cate wasn’t over the whole Pierre incident, especially since she still hadn’t heard from her friends. Not a text, not an IM—nothing. They must have talked to Gloria by now—she had called every person on the guest list, one by one, and told them the wedding had been postponed. If she didn’t hear from Blythe by tonight, she would march over to her penthouse and demand answers…or, well, ask really nicely. For the first time ever, she wasn’t in a place to demand anything.
Stella handed Cate a pile of folded napkins that reminded her of those silly newspaper hats kids made in elementary school. Cate had to admit, even if she and Stella were mad at each other, they made a fierce team. This morning they had delegated their hearts out, sending Lola to Godiva for party favors and Andie out for flower arrangements. Stella had whittled down the list of guests to a few dozen and called them all personally to invite them over. Then Cate had asked her aunt Celeste, Winston’s younger sister, to call in favors to all her contacts at Food & Wine magazine, where she was editor in chief. Celeste had found them a caterer, waitstaff, and bar staff in less than two hours, and Andie had gotten the Ashfords across the street to donate the portable furniture they used for the Harvard Club socials they threw in their drawing room. In less than a day they had pulled together a wedding. Forget Gloria Rubenstein—the Sloane-Childs sisters were the power party planners in New York.
Cate straightened the thin white china plates. In a few minutes the guests would start arriving, and her parents would be there in an hour. The girls had made breakfast for them that morning as an apology, and Lola had told them they should keep their massage and haircut appointments at Red Door Salon that afternoon—to unwind. She’d even arranged for Winston’s driver, George, to come pick them up.
In the corner of the garden Andie stood on a step stool, forcing one last rose into the latticework arch.
They were almost ready. As Cate centered the vase on the table, her iPhone chimed. She pulled it out of the pocket of her Juicy terry pants and stared at it. It was a text…from Blythe.
“You too?” Stella asked, holding her iPhone up.
BLYTHE: P AND S WANT U IN, BUT I’M STILL PO’D. PUCKER UP, LADIES. U HAVE SOME KISSING UP TO DO THIS YEAR.
Cate imagined herself buying all of Blythe’s new C-cup bras, proofreading all her English essays, and touching up her back with Neutrogena sunless tanning foam. She imagined spending every afternoon at Blythe’s penthouse, in Blythe’s room, sitting on Blythe’s couch. Of course Cate still wanted to be part of the Chi Beta Phis. Ashton Prep would be impossible without her friends—like going to war with nothing but a butter knife. But Cate had swallowed enough pride these last two days—any more and she’d need her stomach pumped.
Stella tugged on a blond curl. “This is textual harassment,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Cate laughed, despite herself.
“Cate! Andie!” Lola poked her head out of the dining room door. She was wearing a black Gap dress and clutching an armful of programs that Andie had spent the night designing and printing out. “Your uncle Mark is already here! You have to get dressed!”
Cate took one last look at her cell phone and tucked it back into her pocket. Then she slowly pulled out her Stila lip gloss. If she was going to have to kiss up to Blythe all year, she could at least make sure her lips were hydrated.
Back in her room, Cate pulled on her canary yellow Nanette Lepore dress. The girls had agreed to scrap the bridesmaid dresses for any dress they wanted to wear, as long as it was tasteful and elegant (Cate and Stella held veto rights on Lola and Andie’s outfits, of course).
Cate spun around once in the mirror, but she didn’t get the clothing high she usually did when she wore the yellow dress. Stella had been right all along about Blythe—she had wanted Cate’s throne.
Cate pushed a black patent leather headband over her forehead and smoothed down her dark brown hair. Telling all the girls about Cloud McClean had been a little harsh. Fine—it wasn’t just harsh. It was kind of…wrong…like pouring your cappuccino on someone’s new white linen Prada dress. She’d gotten caught up in the vote. She’d just wanted so badly to win, and she’d seen it slipping away. But still…
Cate opened the door. Even from the hallway, she could hear the sounds of the guests arriving. She made her way down the stairs and saw her aunt Celeste in the foyer, petting Andie’s head like Andie was one of her Saint Bernards.
“Cate!” Celeste cried, spotting her niece. In her cerulean Zac Posen dress, fresh off her second round of microdermabrasion, Celeste looked twenty-five. She grabbed Cate’s hand and pulled her into the kitchen, pointing at the garden through the atrium’s huge windows. “You, my dear, are absolutely amazing. Your father is going to be thrilled.” The garden was packed with guests, downing their last drinks before the ceremony began. Greta, who always attended Cate’s plays when Winston couldn’t, was standing by the buffet, taste-testing the baby lamb chops.
“I know, it’s—” Cate stopped, feeling like someone had shoved an hors d’oeuvre down her throat. Outside, Stella was standing by the bar…wearing Cate’s dress. Cate could have spotted the embroidered yellow fabric out of three hundred racks at Barneys. “I’ll be right back,” she muttered.
She walked toward the door, watching as Stella sidled up to the bar and ordered a drink. Cate’s mind raced. Maybe Stella had known Cate was going to wear it. Maybe she had seen it in her closet and gone out and bought it herself. It was from last season, though—one of the few pieces Cate still wore.
Stella was so busy squeezing lime into her Diet Coke, she didn’t even notice Cate next to her.
The bartender, a hipster with a handlebar moustache, shook a silver cocktail shaker like a maraca. “You guys look like twins,” he said. Stella turned and looked Cate up and down, her face a little pale.
“Nice dress,” Cate said. Then she looked Stella in the eyes, her lips curling into a smile.
“You too,” Stella said softly. “Though I have to say—” Stella pressed one finger into Cate’s arm, “—you look a little pale. Think we have time for a quick spray tan?”
“If I have to be bossed around this year by a burnt sienna crayon,” Cate laughed, “at least I’ll be in good company.”
“Do you think maybe…” Stella began but trailed off.
“What?”
“Maybe we’re better off on our own?” She raised a blond eyebrow. “Chi Sigma?”
Slowly, Cate nodded. “That could work.”