Chapter Four #2
I honestly knew very little about her that could answer that question.
All my years in society had made it very clear who Conrad Phlume was—a boor, a jerk, an extremely rich and sometimes generous asshole—but the wife by his side was more of an enigma.
Honestly, I was surprised she was age-appropriate.
Conrad struck me as the kind of guy who’d want a twenty-two-year-old with giant fake boobs on his arm.
He was talking again. I blinked hard and shut my mouth before he could comment on how blobby my molars were. “… eat their sneers and stares once they hear what I have to say.”
“Great,” I said. “Just don’t forget, the library won’t allow any additions to the speech.”
He snorted, tipping his head back. Tufts of graying hair poked from each of his nostrils. “They won’t get that upset with someone who can pay for a new branch. Trust me.”
Before I could argue with him, he drifted back toward his table, wife in tow. I fought the urge to touch her apologetically on the shoulder as she went. I’m sorry I didn’t speak up for you. I’m sorry I care about this building he’s giving me more than I care about you.
Back at his table, my parents were glaring at me, each other, and the room in general. Everywhere but at Conrad, which meant he was what they really wanted to be glaring at. That cheered me considerably. Served them right for not RSVPing.
Hopefully the people I’d put on Conrad’s other side were less miserable—they were two of my golden geese, and I hoped Conrad would brag enough and be obnoxious enough that he’d goad them into wanting to outdo him.
Kevin Miller, because he’d grown up like my scholarship recipients and would hopefully sympathize with other kids trying to climb the ladder, and Jack Wohl, because he’d grown up in Greenwich and had taken a helicopter to his boarding school in New Hampshire and would want to donate a lot to make society think he cared about poor people (he probably didn’t, but his money worked the same either way).
As Conrad and Bibi settled back into their seats, though, the two men seemed more into having their own conversation than bringing in the guest of honor. Jack was gesturing so hard, he almost knocked Bibi’s water glass into her lap.
They looked up as I stood and tapped my spoon on my champagne flute with a delicate ting that somehow reverberated around the room.
Gabe and Vienna smiled at me from my right and left sides (I probably should have seated my donors next to me, but I’d known I’d spend so much time with them during the rest of the party and really wanted a break to talk to the people who mattered).
“Welcome to the inaugural gala for the Pomona Afton Foundation,” I said.
The room was so quiet you could’ve heard a tiny dog taking one delicate bite from an old book.
(Which, thankfully, I was not hearing, though Denise Ryan had somehow snuck her Pomeranian in and was giving it bits of her bread to nibble on.) “I can’t express how excited I am to be helping students get an education. With your help, of course.”
I went on for a bit, sharing some stories about my scholarship recipients and what they were doing with the money—one budding software engineer, another aspiring social worker, a few teachers (I had a soft spot for teachers, clearly).
I shouted out several of the people who’d made generous donations.
And, of course, I talked about my inspirations for the pastries served tonight.
And then it was time to pass the mic. “My guest of honor tonight is Conrad Phlume. Mr. Phlume needs no introduction, but I’ll give one anyway.
” This one got a snicker around the room.
“New York City’s most famous real estate developer, he holds buildings all over the city, and he was kind and generous enough to loan us a building to use as our center.
I appreciate him very much. Mr. Phlume, take it away. ”
I sat to scattered applause that, excuse me, should have been a lot stronger. From the amount of times I’d practiced that speech in my bedroom mirror and to various captive audiences (mostly Gabe and Squeaky Meatball), I knew I’d been excellent.
Gabe leaned in as Conrad began to speak—so far, fortunately, keeping to the words I’d approved (a bland and somewhat nonsensical story about how growing up wealthy had actually inflicted more hardships upon him than growing up poor would have).
“Your parents are glaring so hard at Conrad Phlume that he might catch fire,” he whispered.
“I’d say you should have them frisked for weapons if I didn’t already know your mom’s shoe could be one. ”
I’d already snuck a glance at her feet before to check; when her famous stilettos had been taken by the police in evidence bags from Opal’s closet and splashed across the front page of every tabloid, she’d been both scarred and tarred.
She was wearing gladiator sandals tonight, which she’d always told me made her legs look stumpy.
“I suppose she could use the laces to strangle him,” I mused.
“But yeah, I know. He’s been persona non grata for, what, a year or two now?
But my parents were ahead of the curve. He was never invited to any of our family galas. ”
I peered at them again, wondering if Conrad had made a pass at my mom or something in the past. They’d be pretty well suited as a couple, honestly. Assuming they didn’t kill each other.
Some unfamiliar words in Conrad’s speech clashed against my ear.
Words that I had decidedly not approved.
“… the business of secrets,” he said, and then he was staring at me.
I blinked, hoping that somehow he was just about to surprise me with an extra few compliments or something.
“When you know someone’s secret, it gives you power. Power that can give you the world.”
A clatter of glass from beside me. Vienna had jumped so hard she’d jarred her tableware. “Vee, are you okay?” I whispered.
She didn’t respond. She was staring at Conrad, her face a murky gray. “I’m fine.”
Conrad Phlume had gone back to his prepared speech, talking about the building in Chelsea he was lending to us and some of its history as a grand residence before falling into disrepair and dilapidation, but the drama wasn’t over.
He stopped short as his wife stood beside him, her jaw clenched hard enough to break teeth.
“Dear,” he began, but she leaned in and whispered. She might not have meant anyone to hear it, but it went right into his mic.
“I’m done. Have fun with that skank.”
She reared back, looking momentarily startled at how loud she’d been, then gave a tiny shrug and tossed her hair before storming off toward the restrooms. I was dying to follow, but as the host, I couldn’t move.
Like she’d read my mind, Vienna stood and also strode off toward the restrooms. What a good best friend.
The rest of Conrad Phlume’s speech passed without great incident, and so did our dinner, which was resoundingly mediocre—the salad a little wilted, the chicken breast dry.
Gabe devoured his entire plate in a matter of moments, though.
A little too fast. Libby, seated on his other side, was giving him side-eye.
I should speak to him about his speed of consumption.
Vienna returned in time to pick at her food. “I’m dying to ask you what Bibi said,” I whispered in her ear. “But I guess I’ll have to wait until later. Don’t want to risk anyone overhearing.”
She picked up a forkful of salmon, grimaced at it, and let it drop back to her plate. “Don’t bother. Nothing interesting happened. All we said to each other was ‘excuse me’ as I was going into the bathroom.”
Well, that was disappointing. I turned my attention to Vienna’s plate, from which she’d eaten almost nothing.
Understandable, considering it wasn’t very good, but also, Vienna had a history of not eating enough during times of stress.
She went practically skeletal while we were waiting for college acceptances back in the day. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said. As if anticipating my next point, she stuck a big forkful of roasted carrot into her mouth and chewed hard. Okay, so she still didn’t want to talk about it. Sure enough, she changed the subject. “How are you feeling about your inaugural gala? I think it’s gone quite well so far.”
“I’m feeling pretty good,” I said, glancing over at the side entrance again. Bibi had emerged, gliding past the crowd with her sharp chin held high as if she didn’t feel all the stares on her. She sat down beside her husband to pick at her salad.
Soon enough, it was time for the after-dinner mingling to commence.
A string quartet played light but delicate tunes in the corner as our hopefully full and sated and slightly tipsy guests were given the opportunity to donate big checks before the champagne buzz or urge to compete with one another wore off.
I, for one, beelined for the three white whales. Denise Ryan first. As I approached her, I ran through the notes my assistant, Lina, had made me in my head, careful not to mouth anything out loud. “Denise! So glad you could make it!”
“Pom,” she said, smiling wide and white. “So glad you invited me.”
I had no idea how true that was. Since her widely publicized divorce and the even more widely publicized vow she’d taken to give her entire half of her ex’s tech fortune away, she’d been invited to every single gala in every single city in every single state.
If anything, I was honored that she’d shown up here when she could’ve been off helping struggling farm workers in SoCal or investing in small theaters downtown.
“How is dual-coast life?” I asked. I’d read she was now splitting her time between her old home in Seattle and here in the city, closer to her parents and siblings in the Philly area where she’d grown up.
“I’ve been considering starting a West Coast branch of Pomona’s Treats. ”