Chapter 6 Jasmine, the Smart One #2
The thing about being wealthy was that it never seemed to be enough.
And if you grew up with nothing but were allowed to step into this magical land of excess, where people spent $10 million on their daughters’ weddings and employed chauffeurs and chefs and butlers, all you focused on was not losing it.
Growing up poor—seriously poor, white trash poor, WIC and food stamps and Goodwill and undernourished poor—Jasmine’s only goal had ever been money, because money bought security, safety and respect. Or so she had thought.
Carmen was heir to a pharmaceutical company, where she’d served as CEO until she retired at forty-six.
Michele, a Harvard graduate, had patented an early form of predictive AI at age twenty-five and had been a billionaire ever since.
While she lacked the élan of old money, she had the cool edge and sardonic judgment of someone who’d earned it herself.
Jasmine was . . . married. For now.
At the Maple Avenue Country Club, the general manager greeted them by name in order of rank—Ms. Guerre (Carmen had kept her maiden name), Ms. Taylor (same) and Mrs. Hahn.
The sommelier brought over Carmen’s favorite bottle of Sancerre without even asking, pouring them each a glass.
Jasmine had learned long ago that ordering anything else, or refusing a glass, was a faux pas.
Six hundred dollars a bottle with the club’s markup. The bill would be split three ways.
“Let’s talk about the fundraiser,” said Carmen.
“Since I spent the past three months at Greenley”—yes, please mention your British manor home, Carmen—“we’ve got to get this settled as soon as possible.
I’m thinking a ball, and I’m thinking of Burning Tree Country Club.
” She lowered her voice. “To be honest, this place has become a little staid, don’t you think?
I know I’ve been a member for years, but it may be time for a change. ”
“A ball is always fun,” Jasmine said, knowing it was her job to agree. That she was even on this committee was surprising.
“Actually,” Michele said, sliding off her suede jacket to reveal a breathtaking diamond-and-fire-opal brooch.
Was that from the Tiffany’s collection that was so elite they didn’t post prices?
Probably. “I have another idea. What about a tour of homes with a party at the end? At my place. I’d love to host. A little more casual, but we could charge the same for tickets.
It’s a great cause, and I think we’re all a little tired of balls.
” A direct jab at Carmen. “Besides, just between the three of us, we have beautiful homes. Yours is so adorable, Jasmine. And I’m sure your redecorating will be done, since you started in January? ”
“Hopefully,” Jasmine said smoothly. “I’ve been saving the living room for last. We spend so much time there as a family, and the girls don’t want to change a thing.
” Another lie, but Carmen and Michele had seen the living room when they picked her up, and if they suspected the rest of the house was “so ten years ago,” at least they couldn’t prove it.
There was no way in hell she’d let their house be on a tour of homes. It would be social suicide.
“Good luck with that, Jasmine,” Carmen said briskly. “But really, Michele? A tour of homes? It seems a bit voyeuristic.”
“I don’t think anyone really gets tired of going to balls,” Jasmine said, surreptitiously wiping her clammy hands on her napkin. “A tour of homes does seem like a lot of work, Michele.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Michele said breezily.
The diamond on her hand could choke a baby.
“Liam would even play. We have that clubhouse on the grounds, remember? You’ve both been there.
It’d be an acoustic night with Liam Dockery.
We could make it small and intimate, and then charge more for that part of the night. ”
“Oh, I love that idea,” Carmen cooed, her eyes cold.
“But we should have it at my place. Liam playing and you contacting all the right homeowners is already too generous, Michele. The water views at mine are so pretty. We can have cocktails on La Reve. Before Liam performs, of course.” La Reve was Carmen’s husband’s new toy, an enormous three-deck yacht, complete with a three-person crew, helicopter pad and swimming pool.
Michele narrowed her eyes. Her house sat in what looked like a botanical garden.
Their driveway had to be a quarter-mile long, and in addition to their massive stone house, their property boasted a conservatory, a clubhouse, a pool house and a garden cottage.
But Michele and Liam didn’t have a private dock, poor lambs.
“I’ll ask Liam what he prefers. But thank you, Carmen. ”
“I’m sure he’d be able to sing a few songs for disadvantaged youth even if he has to slum it at our house, don’t you think, dear?” Carmen fake-laughed.
Michele knew to accept defeat. “Of course. Rich kids shouldn’t be the only ones able to go to college.”
“Not that they do much with their degrees these days, do they? My nephew is in year seven of his bachelor’s degree at Dartmouth. You’d think the boy could decide what he wants to do with his education. He’s an anthropology major, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, God,” Michele said. “At least we knew to major in something useful. Computer science for me; bio-chem for you, of course, Carmen. It’s in your DNA.”
“And what was your major, Jasmine?” Carmen asked. “You went to Penn, right?”
“Princeton,” Jasmine said. “I majored in economics.”
“And you still dabble in the stock market?” Carmen asked, as if Jasmine hadn’t lied about that very thing for the past seventeen years. Carmen’s tone implied she knew very well that Jasmine was a fraud.
“Just for a small group of friends. The girls keep me too busy for anything else.”
If she’d lived up to her potential, her childhood would’ve made a great story, something she could be proud of.
I grew up dirt poor, she’d tell everyone.
Our electricity was turned off at least five times a year.
My mom was a raging alcoholic, my dad was out of the picture and I went hungry plenty of nights.
I had three jobs in high school. Everything I have, I earned.
Instead, she married a rich man.
Their server, Gerhardt, brought them their lunches.
For Jasmine and Michele, preciously assembled grapefruit and Cara Cara orange salad adorned with wisps of fennel, sprayed with a basil mist. For Carmen, a rib eye.
She loved food and unapologetically sported an extra thirty pounds (forty-five, by Greenwich standards).
Jasmine looked at the steak, her mouth watering.
And the scalloped potatoes. Oscar loved scalloped potatoes, and he also loved—or used to love—that she cooked for him when it was just the family, finding it quaint and endearing.
My woman makes my food and waits on me, as God intended.
The next time he was home for dinner, she’d make those scalloped potatoes.
For God’s sake. Scalloped potatoes to prove her worth.
Just then, Jasmine’s phone chimed. Thank God. A chance to step away. She was sweating.
“Excuse me one second,” she said, smiling as she rose from the table. “I’ll be right back.” The other women gave her identical looks—How dare you find something more important than this?—then bent their heads closer as she stepped away.
The ladies’ lounge had a couch, and Jasmine flopped down on it. Lunch with those two was akin to running a marathon. She pulled out her phone. It was an Instagram notification. Someone must’ve liked her photo of the Japanese anemones she’d posted last night.
Social media was something Jasmine worked very hard on, presenting their carefully curated and filtered life—the family, dressed all in white on the beach; their house; the parties; the vacations; the concerts and luxury.
Like everyone who had a social media account, she wanted people to believe what they saw.
Happiness. Beauty. Privilege. Suck on that, assholes, as her brother would’ve said.
The chime wasn’t because of a comment or like, though. It was a message notification.
A message from Audrey Joyce.
She had only ever known one Audrey. She swallowed, then read the message.