Page 141
“Okay, well I guess that’s my fault.”
We exchanged a few more excruciating words, then ended the call. She’d hurt herself rappelling down a waterfall in Costa Rica and she’d just apologized to me for it. I put the phone in my pocket and went back to work.
The photographer came through the side gate as I put my phone away and immediately started asking me to remove every practical item from view: the hose, the spare ice, a catering box. She walked the perimeter to photograph the undisturbed arrangements of flowers and towels and canapés before sunscreened fingers mussed everything. I decided I’d let her break it to Vivienne that none of the photos would end up in Town & Country. My pulse was fierce enough.
More guests arrived, first in spurts, then in throngs, all crisp linen and buttery leather and whitened teeth, lithe and buffered against the ravages of time with torturous Pilates toning and spa treatments. Blythe swanned in, arms already outstretched, jade-green silk floating at her sides and at her heels. Lark was orbiting Vivienne within a minute of walking through the gate, her gold sandals flashing in the sunlight, her blonde, aggressively heat-styled curls bouncing around her shoulders. Sloane arrived guarded, like she knew we’d all be looking for the cracks, her oversized sunglasses and floppy hat hiding most of her face. Karen arrived last, checking her phone, looking up only when Vivienne embraced her theatrically. She settled into a lounger immediately, phone still in hand, with a look on her face like she was almost surprised to find herself there.
I studied the crowd, biting the inside of my mouth. There were just eight male guests there in total: five husbands who’d been dragged there, gathering like survivors around a wilderness campfire, Raff Stone, who lived for female attention, Caspian, and Parker Ainsley the Pervert. None of them would be competing with Kai or Damian for the limelight. But Caspian was a thorn. He’d spent years making rich, unhappy women feel their bodies were sacred texts only he could translate. Half the guests had probably cried facedown on his massage table while he worked tension out of them in ways they wouldn’t repeat aloud. And judging by the way he watched Kai draw Vivienne into conversation, he knew competition when he saw it.
Speaking of Kai, he was working the poolside like a beautiful piece of well-oiled machinery. He’d charmed Vivienne in ninety seconds flat, probably with the words “quietly volcanic,” and she was now gazing into her Chardonnay like she’d never really seen wine before, twirling the glass stem.
He’d since moved on to Karen, who was still answering emails from her lounger with intense focus, like she was defusing an explosive device. I moved closer with the pretense of adjusting already perfectly positioned napkins to listen.
Kai stopped beside her and held out a glass of Sancerre. “No,” she said, without looking up.
“I haven’t offered it yet.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to ask whether you thought it was too sharp.”
She glanced up from her phone.
He held the bottle with one hand behind his back, the label turned toward her.
Karen took the glass, wary. She tasted it. “It’s too cold. You’ve flattened it,”
Kai glanced at the bottle. “How long does it need?”
“Ten minutes.”
His smile widened. “Thank god you’re here.”
He sat on a lounger by hers.
She returned to her phone, but her eyes soon flicked back to Kai.
“You’re holding it wrong,” she said.
“The wine?”
“The glass. You’re warming it with your hand.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“Gradually. Not like you’re trying to revive it.”
He adjusted his grip obediently. “Anything else?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll stand by for instructions.”
Her phone vibrated again. She read the message, typed a reply, deleted it, then began again.
“Work?” Kai asked.
“Unfortunately.”
