WOMAN 1: The sardine can next to the plaid crucifix.
WOMAN 1: I remember that one! So interesting.
WOMAN 2: Yes! And the can is the exact color of my couch.
So—a new exhibition. A new artist. Most important, a party at the gallery to introduce the artist to the art-buying world. Somehow, some way, I’ve got to finagle an invitation.
I walk back outside feeling better, more hopeful. Maybe I’m not such a loser after all.
Until I hear a familiar voice cry: “Elinor Gilbert! What on earth areyoudoing here?”
CHAPTER 40
HER NAME IS PAMELA STARK. At least it was back in high school. A few years ago, I heard she’d gone through several husbands and name changes since we’d dissected our first frog together. Judging by all the diamonds I see on her fingers today, I think she must have gone through several more since then. (Husbands, not frogs.)
Tall, thin, doe-eyed Pamela, who had plump, sensuous lips before Angelina Jolie made them fashionable, was one of those classic high-school paradoxes: Everybody hated her because she was so popular.
It was even worse at our twentieth high-school reunion when she bragged about her fabulous fashion career, her house in Napa, her home in Portofino, and her chalet inthe Swiss Alps, which, she confessed, was only rented. We all nodded in sympathy. I thought I’d seen the last of Pamela, but to paraphrase Dolly Parton,Here she comes again, lookin’ better than a body has a right to… especially a fifty-year-old body. She’s in unnecessarily great shape. I bet the guys still call her Pamela Stark Naked.
Having her remember me is bad enough, but suddenly I spot Amber coming toward us, waving.
Now I’m really starting to panic.
Any second now, Pamela could blow my cover!
My entire mission will hit the fan!
But no. It’s even worse than that.
As Pamela checks out my fat suit, my massive bust, my craggy face, I see a smug smile. In a split second, I go from panicked to pissed.
Does she really think I look like this now?
I’m tempted to blow my own cover.
But before I can, Pamela pulls Amber into a half-assed hug, which I guess has replaced the phony double-cheek air-kiss among the wealthy. Turns out they know each other from the club.
“We went to school together,” Pamela tells Amber in her usual high-handed tone, indicating me with a wave. You’d think the school she was talking about was Harvard instead of Calvin Coolidge High. She probably means it as a simple statement of fact, but in my self-conscious mind, I hear,And see how much betterIlook.
Pamela doesn’t ask me a single question. Not even about my uniform. She’s far more interested in telling usall her latest news—a new husband in hedge funds. Two grown children in finance. She’s launching a line of Pamela Stark cosmetics that her hedge-fund hubby is funding. Best of all, she was finally able to buy that Swiss chalet.
“I’m so happy for you,” I tell her. We hug goodbye and vow to keep in touch, though neither one of us bothers to share contact information.
When Pamela walks away, Amber rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean to be catty, but…”
“Not to worry,” I say as we watch Pamela link arms with her latest spouse, a stooped-over elderly man whose face looks like the sole of my foot. “I’ve hated her longer than you have.”
CHAPTER 41
MY PARENTS STRONGLY BELIEVED in educational gifts. But there weren’t a lot of them around when I was a preschooler. I remember ABC coloring books, magnetic alphabet blocks, lots of picture books with words, letters, numbers. And toddler-size day-of-the-week undies. Yes, I always had a birthday cake. But none of mine ever had five tiers.
Well, that was then. This is now. As Bella’s party is ending, I must confess it’s been lovely. Even the children seem content. No crashes after sugar rushes. Not a single tantrum or meltdown. Nothing but smiling faces loaded with glitter and stickers and hand-painted butterflies. The parents are pleased. The Velasquezes are relieved. Even the pony seems happy.
The children each get a choice of parting gifts: a Skyrocket Mega Chomp remote-control shark, a Magic Mixies Magical Misting crystal ball, or a Tecboss wireless Bluetooth karaoke microphone. To paraphrase F. Scott Fitzgerald: The rich are different from you and me. They have better goody bags.
The caterers are busy clearing away dirty dishes and picking up all the pieces of pink pizza crust scattered under the kiddie tables. Lily has dozed off in her Snugli. Great! Now’s my chance to do a little damage at the food table. I grab a plate and pile on some of those lamb lollies, a few trout croquettes, the last leftover kiddie hamburgers, and a giant glob of caviar and cream cheese dip. But before I can take my first bite, someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Ben. Amber is standing behind him, looking miserable.
“We want to leave,” he says to me. NoHello. NoDid you have a good time?I’m not even offered the option of staying, even though I drove over in my own car. Ben smells like beer and has a big greasy stain on his two-hundred-dollar black cotton Rag and Bone T-shirt. Is that why he’s annoyed? Hard to say. A guy like Ben doesn’t need a reason.
