I knew I should’ve stayed with her tonight, but it was nearly two and I had to be at work in five hours. My clothes smelled of vomit and there was no way I could find a single appropriate piece of clothing in Lily’s closet to wear to Runway – especially with my new upgraded look. I sighed and pulled a blanket over her and set her alarm for 7:00 A.M. so just in case she wasn’t too hungover she’d have a shot at making it to class.
‘’Bye, Lil. I’m heading out. You OK?’ I placed the portable phone on the pillow by her head.
She opened her eyes, looked directly at me, and smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, her eyelids dropping again. She wasn’t fit to run a marathon, or probably even operate a motorized lawn mower, but she’d be fine to just sleep it off.
‘It was my pleasure,’ I managed, even though this was the first time in twenty-one hours I had stopped physically running, fetching, rearranging, moving, cleaning, or otherwise assisting. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I said as I willed my legs not to give out. ‘If either of us is still alive.’ And I finally, finally, went home.
‘Hey, I’m glad I caught you,’ I heard Cara say on the other end of the line. Why was she out of breath at quarter of eight in the morning?
‘Uh-oh. You never call this early. What’s wrong?’ In the split second it took me to say those words, a half-dozen scenarios of what Miranda could need raced through my mind.
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to warn you that B-DAD is on his way in to see you, and he’s particularly chatty this morning.’
‘Oh, well, that’s sure great news. It’s been, what, nearly a week since he’s interrogated me about every aspect of my life? I was wondering where my biggest fan had gone.’ I finished typing my memo and hit ‘print.’
‘You’re a lucky girl, I have to say. He’s lost interest in me entirely,’ she pined dramatically. ‘He only has eyes for you. I heard him say that he was coming over to discuss details of the Whitney party with you.’
‘Great, that’s just great. I can’t wait to meet this brother of his. So far I’ve just spoken to him on the phone, but he sounds like a total schmuck. So, you’re sure he’s on his way, or is it possible there’s a kind spirit up above who just may spare me that particular misery today?’
‘Nope, not today. He’s definitely on his way. Miranda has a podiatrist appointment at eight-thirty A.M., so I don’t think she’ll be coming with him.’
I checked the appointment book on Emily’s desk quickly and confirmed her appointments. A Miranda-free morning was indeed on the schedule. ‘Fantastic. I couldn’t think of anyone dreamier to do a little early-morning bonding with than B-DAD himself. Why does he talk so much?’
‘Can’t answer that other than to point out the obvious: he married her, so he’s clearly not all there. Call if he says anything particularly ridiculous. I have to run. Caroline just smashed one of Miranda’s Stila lipsticks into the bathroom mirror for no apparent reason.’
‘Our lives rock, don’t they? We’re the coolest girls. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Talk to you later.’
‘OK, ’bye.’
I glanced over the memo while I waited for B-DAD’s arrival. It was a request to the board of trustees to the Whitney Museum from Miranda. She was asking permission to throw a dinner party at the museum in March for her brother-in-law, a man I could tell she absolutely despised but who was, unfortunately, family. Jack Tomlinson was B-DAD’s younger and wilder brother, and he’d just announced he was leaving his wife and three children and marrying his masseuse. Although he and B-DAD were both quintessential East Coast prep school aristocracy, Jack had shed his Harvard persona in his late twenties and moved to South Carolina, where he’d immediately made a fortune in real estate. Judging from everything Emily had told me, he’d morphed into a first-class Southern boy, a real straw-chewin’, tobacco-spittin’ hick, which of course appalled Miranda, the epitome of class and sophistication. B-DAD had asked Miranda to organize an engagement party for his baby brother, and Miranda, blinded by love, had no choice but to oblige. He had left all the details to her so, quite naturally, Miranda has set about to make things as difficult as humanly possible.
Rather than host the dinner party at, oh, a restaurant, Miranda had decided that it would have ‘more impact’ for the guests to dine in a museum, although she eliminated most of them as though they were take-out joints (the Met is ‘too stiff,’ the Guggenheim ‘too dark,’ the Museum of Natural History ‘an eyesore now that it includes that dreadful planetarium’). She finally settled on the Whitney (‘understated, modern, intimate’). I’d been delighted when the museum immediately agreed to the dinner party in their lower-level restaurant or their first-floor lobby space, but I should’ve known that was too simple. The moment I’d conveyed the news to Miranda, she’d sighed deeply, shook her head in sympathy for my stupidity, and informed me that she’d never agree to a dinner anywhere except the de Kooning gallery in the permanent collection. Obviously. Dear Honored Members, blah, blah, blah … would like to request permission to host a fabulous little soiree, preferably in the back room of the second floor, blah, blah, blah … will be hiring only the finest caterers, florists, and band, of course, blah, blah, blah, would welcome your input, blah, blah. Making sure one last time that there were no glaring errors, I quickly forged her name and called for a messenger to come pick it up.
The knock on the office suite door – which I kept closed this early in the morning since no one was in yet anyway – came almost immediately, and I was impressed with their turnaround time, but the door swung open to reveal B-DAD, who was sporting a grin much too enthusiastic for pre-eight A.M.
‘Andrea,’ he sang, immediately walking over to my desk and smiling so genuinely it made me feel guilty for not liking him.
‘Good morning, Mr Tomlinson. What brings you here so early?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Miranda’s not in yet.’
He chuckled, his nose twitching like a rodent’s. ‘Yes, yes, she won’t be in until after lunch, or so I believe. Andy, it really has been too long since you and I caught up. Tell Mr T. now: How is everything?’
‘Here, let me take those,’ I said, pulling the monogrammed duffel full of Miranda’s dirty clothes that she’d given him to give to me. I also relieved him of the beaded Fendi tote bag that had surfaced again recently. It was a one-of-a-kind tote that had been hand-beaded in an elaborate crystal design just for Miranda from Silvia Venturini Fendi, as a thank-you for all of her support, and one of the fashion assistants had put its value at just under ten grand. But I noticed today that one of the skinny leather handles had broken loose yet again, even though the accessories