32. Rich Girl, Hall & Oates
"Rich Girl," Hall & Oates
Cruz
I’d never felt more working class than when Victoria’s Audi glided through stone-pillared gates, revealing a tree-lined drive so long it could’ve crossed state lines.
For the first hour of the trip, I’d lightened the mood with playlists and car games, but the closer we got to Sagaponak, the tighter she gripped the steering wheel, her eyes staring ahead in the darkness. I turned on a soft acoustic playlist of Brandi Carlile, Mazzy Star, and Tracy Chapman, and her fingers relaxed.
The house loomed in the darkness like the architect had been dared to design Bridgerton, blindfolded, while hopped up on speed. I grabbed our bags from the trunk despite her insisting staff would handle it. What kind of fake boyfriend doesn’t carry his girl’s suitcase?
She stepped up to the carved mahogany door and smoothed her blazer before ringing the bell. Earlier, I’d asked why she wore her lawyer suit, and she snarked, ‘To remind Beverly that some of us work instead of mooching off their husbands’ money.’
A frosty white woman opened the door, so slim her bones might break from a firm hug. Her mouth puckered so tight I wondered if she survived on lemon juice, cayenne pepper and Botox.
"Good, you’re finally here," she said, her faux-refined voice betraying a Jersey ‘he-yuh.’ The two-story foyer was larger than my mom’s whole house, marble floors gleaming under a giant chandelier, flanked by two spiraling staircases.
“I told you we were coming after work,” Victoria said crisply, her voice echoing off the cold surfaces. “Eric, this is Beverly Larsson-Sinclair, Richard’s wife.”
Beverly extended limp fingertips, as if full contact might transmit my poverty.
“Has my father arrived yet?” Victoria asked.
“Arthur’s coming tomorrow morning,” Beverly’s swollen lips pursed.
“But the party starts at 9.”
“The governor couldn’t make it that early, so I changed it until noon,” Beverly said, forcing a razor-thin smile that looked deranged. “Whoops, forgot to tell you.”
Victoria’s jaw clenched so tightly that I worried about her dental bill.
Trying to lighten the mood, I said, “Good, we can sleep in.”
Victoria started towards the staircase until Beverly said, “Chef is waiting in the kitchen to discuss your menu selections.”
Victoria paused, suspicious. “Now?”
“You always complain about carbs.”
Victoria adjusted her blazer. “I have celiac’s disease, Beverly. Gluten makes me sick.”
Her gaze lingered on Victoria’s hips. “It wouldn’t hurt you to stick with salad.”
I leaned in to murmur, “You need the protein for your strength. Salad alone will make you like endive: weak and bitter.”
Beverly rang a bell—seriously, a bell?—and a man in a slate-gray suit arrived, face as expressive as the marble floors.
“Miss Sinclair,” he welcomed her with a nod.
“Alton, it’s Ms. Blackstone.”
I huffed a laugh, wanting to add an ‘If you’re nasty,’ and her lip twitched. The sound drew the butler’s attention, inspecting me like a used car whose tag just said ‘cheap.’
“Alton will show you to the guest wing,” Beverly told me in an obvious dismissal.
“There was no mention of an additional guest. I didn’t prepare a second room.”
“Eric will stay with me,” Victoria replied. Her fingers brushed my arm, like she wanted to say something, then she disappeared down the corridor. The butler led me upstairs, past dozens of portraits hung on the long hallway, some of Richard posing with politicians and tech billionaires, more beside Beverly in designer dresses, looking waifish and miserable. One photo of a younger Victoria at a graduation ceremony, her ex-husband’s possessive grip around her waist like her accomplishment was his to claim.
“I’ve served this family for fifteen years,” Alton said, “Every guest for tomorrow’s event has been vetted thoroughly.”
“Okay?” I said politely.
“As her bodyguard, I assume you’ve been briefed by the security detail.”
“Why do you think she needs a bodyguard?”
“A woman like Vickie invites trouble,” he muttered. He stopped in front of a heavy door with a plaque that read ‘The Nixon Suite,’ and I entered a series of rooms way bigger than my apartment. The sitting area reeked of old money, like the cushions had absorbed generations of overpriced cologne and racist opinions. Above the fireplace was a framed photo of Richard with the former president.
When Victoria hadn’t arrived after a few minutes, I considered tracking her down, but worried I’d get lost in the labyrinth and end up as a human sacrifice. I opened French doors onto the balcony, overlooking white tablecloths fluttering over a three-tiered deck. The Long Island Sound shimmered at the edge of the estate, but the soothing ocean waves did nothing to calm the dread pooling in my stomach.
A muffled shout echoed from my left. I didn’t think, just ran to find Victoria. Because no matter why the butler thought I was here, I knew why I came: to protect Victoria, whether she wanted me to or not.