Chapter 17
Anne had just about come to terms with celebrating Thanksgiving alone in her pajamas with an order of Chinese food and a Christmas movie marathon on her laptop, when she received a text from her father.
DAD
The shock was only mildly embarrassing. It wasn’t that she thought her father didn’t care—though that was always a nagging question—only that Walt Elliot was the center of his own universe.
While both Anne and her mother had come to terms with it in their own ways—Bianca had divorced him, and Anne tried to keep tight control of everything else in her life—it was only Anne who still harbored hope that he would eventually share a scrap of affection with her.
If that meant spending a holiday specifically designed to be celebrated at home at a swanky restaurant in Soho instead, so be it.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that her father adored Balthazar—at one point during Kellynch’s heyday, he had the ma?tre d’s number and used the “bat phone” entrance, a privilege reserved only for the most exclusive clientele.
The effortlessly chic brasserie, where New Yorkers and celebrities sat side by side on the long zinc wooden bar dining on rich French cuisine, was a place to be seen without being pretentious.
It radiated a refined elegance—something Walt aspired to but could never quite grasp.
Of course, if his continued attempts required Anne to enjoy a delicious gourmet meal every now and then—maybe even dessert—who was she to say no?
She had spent the last few weeks living off ramen noodles and the Korean snacks they sold at Helwig Deli, so while she got ready Thanksgiving morning, she daydreamed about warm French onion soup, crème br?lée, and one of those baguettes that was as long as her arm.
It sounded glorious, even if it meant listening to her father’s complaining—what was sure to be a never-ending litany about Brooklyn, his credit freeze, and his overall predicament, as if he had been merely an innocent bystander to it all. But she could power through.
Just think crème br?lée, she reminded herself.
She bundled up in her navy blue peacoat and knit hat, then headed downstairs at half past five to make sure she arrived on time.
The air outside was brisk and an array of Christmas decorations dotted the different stoops as she walked across town.
She moved briskly, like every New Yorker, but still let herself enjoy the walk through the Village, how the city shifted to avenues and cobblestoned streets lined with art galleries and boutiques.
Soho welcomed her like every Manhattan neighborhood did, warmly and then with a blaring taxi horn.
After she turned onto Spring Street, she made her way over to the prominent red awning of the restaurant.
She opened the black-rimmed glass doors to a wall of sound—conversations and laughter and clinking of silverware and glasses. She took off her hat and coat as she moved to the hostess stand.
While she waited for the couple in front of her to be seated, she felt a stab of guilt over not visiting her father in Brooklyn.
For the past couple of months, she had been so concerned about cleaning up his messes that she had forgotten to worry about him.
Yes, he was difficult and self-centered, but he was still her father, and she knew he defined himself by his social status.
Now he was living in a different borough, MacKenzie was living in Ibiza, and his only source of income was in limbo.
Suddenly, the prospect of dinner didn’t seem so daunting.
The hostess reappeared and Anne stepped forward.
“Hi, I think my father has a reservation,” she said. “Walter Elliot?”
The tall, willowy woman looked at the screen in front of her, then smiled. “Ah, yes. Follow me.”
They made their way past the bar, then the cozy red leather booths, and into the heart of the restaurant. Then, suddenly, a high-pitched shriek sliced through the air.
Anne froze. She knew that shriek. It was the soundtrack to a hundred different nightmares over the past five years.
Denise Sinclair.
“Aaaaaaaaaaanne!” The star of Divorce Divas emerged from the far corner and started toward her, bumping into the chairs of numerous diners along the way.
She was clad in a gold-encrusted designer wrap dress, the same color as her signature platinum-blond hair.
The only thing different from the last time Anne had seen her was that her Pomeranian, Chanel, was decidedly absent from her tanned arms where he was usually perched.
“It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed as she locked Anne in a tight embrace. As she pulled away, she smiled, her full set of veneers (purchased by production during season five) on display.
“I’ll take it from here,” she said to the hostess, shooing her away. Then she turned back to Anne. “I’m so glad you’re joining us for Thanksgiving! We have so much to talk about!”
Anne blinked. What is going on?
“Denise.” Anne finally exhaled, feigning as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“Come on, come on, we’re over here!” Denise sang. Her arm flailed out toward the long table in the far corner.
For a split second, Anne found herself looking around the restaurant for the production crew to appear, as if everyone was in the midst of shooting a Divorce Divas holiday special and she had just missed the memo.
When no one came, she turned back to Denise.
It was impossible to tell this woman’s age with all the work she had had done.
Was she thirty or sixty? No one really knew.
Her porcelain skin pulled tight over her high cheekbones, flawlessly layered makeup adorned her eyes and overly full lips, and her hair was inhumanly shiny.
Her fitted designer dresses hugged her curves, and her gravity-defying cleavage was only pushed up further as she put one arm around Anne’s shoulders and started walking with her to the table.
“Thank God you’re here!” she lamented. “The manager said no cameras were allowed! Can you talk to her? We need content. Who knows what might happen tonight! We’re missing television gold. I already said two quotable lines that if they were filming would go viral, I just know it.”
Anne pretended to listen as she craned to see who else was waiting just ahead. “Is my dad here?”
“He’s right there at the head of the table, sitting with me and my favorite sister, Angela—she cracks me up. I thought it would be fun to get the gang together again, like old times. Make sure there’s no hard feelings. Your dad has always been there for me. At least I won’t lose you!”
Anne frowned. “Excuse me?”
The woman’s head fell back as she cackled. “You’re so funny! My show, obviously!”
“The show is on hiatus, Denise,” Anne said.
“Not Divorce Divas! My show! Or my brand, as Theo calls it. You know I don’t keep up with all the different platforms and apps and whatever the hell they call it.
That’s why we have you. HA! Anyway, glad you’re finally here.
I’m just gonna use the loo, but go on! Everyone already had their appetizers.
The oysters are to die for!” Denise squeezed Anne’s arm before leaving her.
“Great.” Anne sighed as the woman left her and bounded toward the ladies’ room.
She felt that she had only just processed the appearance of Denise and now there was another show? Her stomach did an odd drop as her brain started to connect the dots. Was that Theo’s project? The one she had spent so many hours working on?
“Anne!” The sound of her father’s voice brought her attention back to the restaurant.
She dodged a waiter and a dessert tray and finally arrived at the long table in the back corner.
It was brimming with Denise’s friends and family—she recognized them from unavoidable run-ins during production.
It was a sea of sequins and animal print, and in the center of it all was Walt Elliot.
He was indeed at the head in his best silk shirt, one elbow on the table as he laughed at whatever was being discussed, even as he caught her eye and impatiently waved her over.
Walt rolled his eyes when she finally arrived at the seat next to him. “Finally.”
Anne sighed. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Dad.”
“Oh, take that look off your face. You know how much I hate it. It’s a party. And the paparazzi might be here soon.” Then he gave her his signature wince, the one that was supposed to work in lieu of an apology.
“There’s paparazzi?” Anne asked, confused.
“Honestly, it’s like you don’t even care. Denise has a friend who will feed the pictures straight to TMZ. How the stars give thanks and celebrate the harvest, or something.”
Anne looked around the busy restaurant again. “Dad, I don’t think—”
“Can we get more oysters!” he called out across the room to no one in particular. “Make it two dozen.”
A nearby waiter responded with a nod and hustled away.
“Dad,” she said sternly, keeping her voice low so only he could hear. “What is going on?”
“What do you mean?” he said, as if he was still in awe. “Denise invited me as her personal guest to celebrate!”
Anne blinked. “Celebrate what? Did Marsha drop the assault charges?”
“Oh, who knows,” Walt replied, rolling his eyes.
“You’re burying the lede! When I called the network to talk about the hiatus, they told me some fantastic news.
Divorce Divas is headed to Turkey! Isn’t that fantastic?
The residuals are going to be astronomical.
” He took a deep sip of his drink. “And it all happened after MacKenzie signed the divorce papers, so she won’t see a cent of this deal. I love it when things work out.”
“Wait.” Anne shook her head, trying to make the facts fit into place in a way that made sense. “What deal?”
“Aren’t you listening? The licensing deal with Turkey! A top TV streamer over there wants Divorce Divas! Every damn season! It puts me so far back in the black, it’s obscene. Who says there’s no money in television anymore? Ridiculous.”
Anne’s mouth fell open. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I just did! But you can’t tell anyone else. It’s all very hush-hush until the agreement is signed. Which reminds me, I have it on my phone so you can look it over and give me your notes.”
What was happening?
Divorce Divas was still on hiatus, but meanwhile, its back seasons were headed to Turkey, while Denise was developing a television show with Theo that Anne may have unwittingly helped create.
And it was coming to light at her family Thanksgiving with her dad, a plethora of oysters, and a table lined with zebra print and sequins.
“Dad, have you talked to Theo about any of this?” Anne hedged.
He scoffed. “Who?”
“The showrunner on Divorce Divas,” she replied. “Because I think Denise has been talking to him about—”
“It’s my company,” Walt cut her off. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Anne whispered sharply. “You’re celebrating a licensing deal while our staff and crew are at home, waiting for news of whether the show is going back into production or not. Even the star of the show is making other plans!”
Walt’s eyes closed as if she were weighing on his last nerve. “Anne, don’t make me regret inviting you. Honestly.”
Anne’s jaw tightened and she clenched her fists.
She wanted to point out that he only asked her to come because Denise told him to.
He never asked Anne anything, in fact. Instead he just assumed, took, overstepped, which is exactly how she ended up wasting the past five years of her life keeping his production company from falling apart, only to have him find a way to implode it anyway.
But before she could open her mouth, Denise appeared in front of them.
“Oh, look at us all!” She beamed as the entrees were placed on the table in a mad dash by the waiters. She took her seat across from Anne and raised her champagne flute, addressing the entire table, “To us, to family, to my brand!”
Anne glanced back and forth between her father and the reality show star.
This wasn’t a holiday—it was a business meeting.
All her life, she had just wanted a holiday that wasn’t consumed by ulterior motives, by fights and digs and money.
She wanted her father to want to be in her presence, not require it for his own advancement.
And she was so tired of fighting against that, of hoping anything would change, that suddenly the anger in her chest twisted and molded into something else entirely: indifference.
They wouldn’t change, and she refused to waste any more time expecting them to.
“Dad,” she said, pulling his attention back to her. “I’m going to go home.”
His smile faltered. “What?”
“I’m going home.”
“Don’t be silly. You just got here,” he said dismissively. “There’s five courses coming, and I need you to look over this agreement while you wait. There’s something about backend residuals, and you know I don’t know—”
“I’m leaving,” she interrupted, then turned to Denise. “It was lovely to see you, Denise.”
“Oh, Anne, I’ll call you!” she replied, smiling like she was completely missing the tension in the air. She probably was.
“Right,” Anne replied, pushing out her chair and standing. “And, Dad, I quit.”
Her father’s face went slack with shock.
Anne continued forward, skirting around a frenzied waiter, past the cozy leather booths filled with well-fed happy patrons, and headed out the front door to the fresh air to take the first deep breath she’d had in years.