Everybody Rise (20 page)

“I have a boyfriend,” Evelyn said.

“Call it what you will. Evelyn, I hate to say it, but your looks will start to fade, and your body will start to sag. It's been happening to me for the last thirty years, and it's just dreadful. When I think about what I could have done at twenty-six—well. Jaime de Cardenas is linked to Spanish nobility. That is something you just can't argue with. Susie—you remember Susie, her daughter is in Washington—was saying he's heading the Save Venice ball this year.”

Save Venice, and the young friends of the Frick, and the Apollo Circle at the Met Opera, yes, yes, Evelyn knew.

“You ought to keep an eye out for him. He sounds like the last of the eligible bachelors,” Barbara said.

Evelyn saw Scot, at the other end of the hallway, waiting for her and doing an awkward arm stretch. Her mother's verdict was in; Evelyn was silent for a while, pressing her thumb over the top joint of her pinkie.

“That's all I wanted to say,” Barbara finally said. “Can you please help me with my coat?”

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Summer in the City

Camilla had deemed one of the final summer weekends an “urban incursion,” ignoring Scot's correction that an “incursion” was a sudden invasion and not the opposite of “excursion.” “It'll be fabulous,” Camilla had said to Evelyn. “All of the restaurants will be practically empty, and we can go anywhere we like, and do Pilates, and don't have to wait for appointments at Exhale.”

“You never have to wait for appointments at Exhale,” Evelyn had said.

Camilla had just smiled.

Evelyn snuck out of PLU at noon that Friday, after an intense and tiring argument with Arun and Jin-ho. The Habsburg founder was unhappy with the membership numbers, and Arun and Jin-ho called her into one of the conference rooms to discuss it. They wanted more traditional marketing, they said; Evelyn should do whatever it took to get the numbers up.

“Like what?” she'd asked. “You want me to buy mailing lists from real-estate records in tony neighborhoods? Do you know how expensive those are, and how much unsolicited mail those people get? The point of this site is that it's selective. If you want mass, you can go to MySpace, and even Facebook isn't restrictive about colleges anymore. We don't need to copy what they're doing.”

“We need something else,” Arun had said. “The one-off events you've held have been expensive and haven't resulted in big yields.”

“It's a long-term strategy. At this point we shouldn't be doing huge events with huge numbers. If you want to spend on a real launch party, terrific. I'll happily get behind that. But that's going to be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars and I don't think we have the budget for it. The smaller events are relatively cheap and are building buzz: we've been on Page Six, we've been in Styles, and the members we have are purely A-list: Bridie Harley, Caperton Ripp, Camilla Rutherford, Preston and Bing Hacking, to name a few. That's precisely where we want to be.”

“Ulrich feels the numbers should be higher by now,” Arun had said.

“Ulrich is Swiss and, with respect, in his seventies. We're going after American twentysomethings. He's going to have to trust us.”

“One of my buddies works in the Rangers front office,” Jin-ho had said. “You should talk to him once hockey season gets going. They're pros at comarketing.”

“The Rangers? Are you kidding?” Evelyn said. “I don't think providing foam fingers as men knock out each other's teeth screams elite. We're trying to prove that this is a site for the highest social strata. If we do something off-brand now, we lose them. They can smell error. They can smell weakness.”

Arun had twisted his lips, then smiled; he was nicer than Jin-ho. “Okay, Evelyn, but like it or not, we all work for Ulrich, and if he says we get the numbers up, then we get the numbers up. It doesn't have to be a Rangers game, but you've got to figure something out.”

Evelyn had folded her arms, not wanting to commit to anything. When she'd seen Arun and Jin-ho leave the building at noon, headed for some Vegas bachelor party, she'd strode out onto the street, hitting the pavement so hard she made dents in her heels, to meet Camilla at Takashimaya, a Japanese department store on Fifth.

It was quiet as a library in there when Evelyn found Camilla on the second floor, examining a travel nail-care kit encased in crocodile. “This is cute, don't you think?” Camilla said when Evelyn arrived. Evelyn felt like her head was emitting clouds of steam.

“What?” asked Camilla.

“Work,” Evelyn groaned. “They won't listen to a thing I have to say.”

“Who won't?”

“The co-CEOs. Arun and Jin-ho.”

“Whoosie and whatsit? Who are they?”

“Stanford grads. Random Stanford grads, I might add. Jin-ho buttons his top button, and Arun unbuttons to, like, three or four buttons, so we can all share in his chest hair. Yet they think they know more than I do about what to do for the site.”

“That's cray-cray. Ignore it!” Camilla said gaily. “My acupuncturist says we have to dismiss all negative energy in our lives. I want leather sandals.”

As though Camilla had summoned a genie, a white-haired man approached. Evelyn let her eyes slide over him, mimicking the frostiness with which Barbara had always treated salespeople, and expecting Camilla to do the same. Instead, Camilla leaned in.

“Hello!” said Camilla, as if the man were a favorite uncle. “How are you? Isn't it beautiful outside today? I love your tie pin. I'm hoping for some sandals. Size seven.”

The man gave her a gap-toothed grin that made him look sweet and alive, not like a laid-off office worker who could only find a job selling ladies' shoes. This was the magic of Camilla. “Sandals,” the man repeated, and headed into the back. He returned with three large boxes and squatted below Camilla.

“You're too funny,” Camilla said, as he fastened one pair on her feet.

“I'm sorry,” Evelyn said. “I'm still thinking about this work thing. They actually mentioned doing a marketing event at a Rangers game today.”

“Ew. I don't want my profile on there if there are going to be sports people on it.”

“No, no no no no. They're not actually going to do it. I'm not going to let them. I will preserve the site, I promise.” Evelyn couldn't lose Camilla as a member, and she quickly formed a new idea. “Members should come from people like us, per the site name. I was thinking they should do something with, say, the new crop of debs.”

She watched; it worked; Camilla bit. “Ooh, that would be good. I could totally see the deb set using it,” she said.

Evelyn turned her head, trying to keep the smile from spreading over her face. She had been studying debutantes lately for her PLU work, reading about them at the New York Public Library. In microfilm and microfiche, she had learned—with some difficulty, as part of the code of being a deb was you didn't speak or write about being a deb—about New York debbing.

She had first gotten wind of the New York debutante scene at Sheffield, where Preston had been an escort at some of the balls. “The season,” to the degree that it was still a season, was an approximation of the London Court parties that inspired the American debutante tradition.

The Bal Français was the first of the balls, held in June, just as the seniors were graduated from high school. With the prestigious balls occurring over the holidays, the Bal served as a training ground. The Junior League, at Thanksgiving, was a bit new-money, though considered a fun party. At Christmastime, the Infirmary was the big social event, with girls from old Greenwich and Boston and D.C. families in addition to New Yorkers; since the debs could invite friends, it was a popular party for the young set. The Junior Assembly was the real deal, a small, old-school ball limited to debs, family, and escorts, where it still raised eyebrows if a girl was Catholic. The International, held close to New Year's, completed the season, but it was for new-money arrivistes, the daughters of Russian oligarchs and Southern chicken-parts kings.

Evelyn had read, too, about the sociology of debutante balls, about why this seemingly archaic tradition still occurred in cities all over the country—from Dallas to Seattle to Boston—and why they kept going even as eighteen-year-old girls were clearly no longer being introduced to society for the first time at them. “Rite of passage marked with social status symbolism,” she had scribbled in her notebook. “Effort at social stratification.” “Way to pass on class markers/place in society to children b/c Americans have no Brit-like titles—same fxn as Social Register.” “Cultural capital.” “Invitation-only means elite get to decide invitees. Distinguish elite from not-so-elite.”

“Right,” Evelyn said. If Camilla was talking about debutantes with her, she must assume that Evelyn had debbed, too; that was the code. “Absolutely. I'd think it would be a big draw for the site. Even just the content around the balls—where should I look for my dress, where should we postparty, et cetera.”

“I could see it,” Camilla said.

“I had such issues with my dress, because I was fitted for it in the summer and then went off to school and gained eight pounds, and the dressmaker was so angry with me.” The words tumbled out, and Evelyn didn't even want to stop them. She wanted to see where this would lead.

“Where did you deb?” Camilla asked, pointing at the sandals.

“The Bachelors' Cotillion,” Evelyn said casually. She hadn't spent all that time with microfiche for nothing.

“The Bachelors' Cotillion,” Camilla repeated.

“In Baltimore.” Evelyn quickly added to her pitch. “It's so funny and old school. When my grandmother did it, they all had to wear long-sleeve dresses, and there was complete chaos when one of the girls wore a strapless dress. We used to see that woman at the tennis club, and by this time she was seventy, wearing caftans, and my grandmother still considered her so risqué.” She was fascinated by how the words sprinted out faster than her brain seemed to form them.

Camilla just smiled. “Hilarious.” Then she leapt up, handing the man her AmEx Platinum. “Can you just wrap these up for me? Thanks so much. Evelyn: we have to talk.”

Evelyn started to backtrack on the debutante story, but before she could, Camilla continued, “You know my mother's forcing me to be the junior-committee host for the Luminaries, right?”

“Sure,” Evelyn said. It was the key fund-raiser for the New-York Signet Society, a charity that supported artistic and literary events around the city.

“I was thinking, your father would be a great Luminary.”

“My father? He's not a New Yorker.”

Camilla winked. “Sometimes we can make exceptions. Particularly if the Luminaries are supportive of the group.”

“Milla, he's not a literary guy.”

“I was thinking he should come in at the Luminary Patrons level. There's a fabulous dinner that he'd love. He sounds so fun, Evelyn. We never get people from the South and he would spice it up.”

“I'm sure he'd love to, but honestly, I don't think it's his kind of thing.”

“Evelyn, you support my things, I support your things,” Camilla said in a low voice, narrowing her eyes. Evelyn half expected a “Capisce?” from her.

“I'll definitely ask, but—”

“So the Patrons level. He'll really enjoy it. I'll put together the information for him. Let him know I'm counting on him for a Patrons donation. It's twenty-five thousand, so.”

“Twenty-five thousand.” Evelyn licked her lips. “Right, the thing is, though—”

The man returned with a triangular shopping bag, and Camilla took it as she continued, “He will have a great time. I don't want to hear another word about it. Now, lunch.” She started to walk away, leaving Evelyn a little stunned.

*   *   *

Evelyn had pictured the whole New York weekend being just her and Camilla, shopping and ordering drinks and brunching, but when she joined Camilla that evening at Sant Ambroeus, Camilla had ordered Aperol spritzes for seven.

“Who else is coming?” Evelyn said, taking a sip of the fluorescent-orange drink.

“Nick, Brooke Birch, Will Brodzik, Pres, and I think Pres is bringing your friend Carrie,” Camilla said.

“Charlotte?” Evelyn said.

“Isn't it Carrie?” Camilla asked.

Brooke had gone to St. Paul's and Trinity with Camilla, Evelyn had discovered when Googling her after an earlier mention. Her plump boyfriend Will had played water polo at Enfield but was squarely middle class; he had been an Enfield day student, practically a townie, Camilla had once explained. Brooke and Will had been uncompetitive sorts who moved to San Francisco after college, electing a life of triathlons and second-tier markets instead of the elbow throwing of New York. Brooke had worked for two years doing fund-raising at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. She had quit not long ago, and talked vaguely about opening a boutique in Pacific Heights, but her mother's second marriage had been good enough that she would inherit plenty and didn't have to work. Indeed, the marriage, to a ski-resort developer, was also good for Will, who worked for Brooke's stepfather's firm.

Brooke arrived when Camilla was in the bathroom and, when the maître d' took her over to the table, flat-out glared at Evelyn before sitting.

“I'm Evelyn Beegan. It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you,” Evelyn said, scooting out from her chair to offer her hand. “So you know Camilla from St. Paul's?”

“We're very old friends,” said Brooke, who had thin blond hair and pointy ears, emphasizing the “very.” “I thought it was just me, her, Will, and Preston tonight, actually.”

“Nope,” said Evelyn.

“You met through a website?”