Wolves in Chic Clothing Read online

  Hope wanted to pull a Tammy Wynette and support his difficult decision, but the idea of Charlie leaving his stable job was daunting, though on the flip side, she hated seeing him down after the workday. She felt so much pressure lately, she’d often wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and covered in sweat. And her friends were too clueless—they just assumed everyone had a few mill in the bank. Polly kept saying, “You have got to get out of that apartment! I am having Kirk Henckels call you tomorrow about new listings on the market.”

  Hope pretended she was in no rush and was simply waiting for the right place, when in reality she knew she could never afford the luxurious floor plans her friends had. She couldn’t even dream of competing—Polly’s digs were at least $3 million and the place Lell was about to close on, well, aside from the purchase price of $6.9 million, the maintenance in that white-glove building had to be at least seven grand a month. Argh! Hope hated it when she found herself counting other people’s assets. It was loathsome and classless, and made her feel like she was drowning. Okay, calm down, she thought. What is my problem? She knew there were limbless cripples with gangrene begging in India, and gaunt starving Somalian children with flies on their faces and even in her country—her city—there were rape victims and rat-infested spider-hole studios and families whose tenements were ravaged by theft or gunshots or fires. What the hell was she freaking out about? That she was in a postwar rental a few blocks too far east? Big deal! She was blessed! People would kill to have her life, because the outward appearance was so flawless, but it was in fact cobbled together with the duct tape of borrowed gowns and invitations to the right parties and running with the rich.

  But at least Hope had love. She loved her husband so much it hurt. Her college sweetheart, Charlie had always been her number-one best friend. She’d be in a frustrated sea of running boys, spaghetti sauce splatters and another shattered glass, and then Charlie would walk in and all the noise and chaos melted away in his hug. The boys would run to him and pounce, sticking to him like a couple of suction cup–Garfields, while Hope looked on smiling. He knew she was going nuts with little help and close quarters. And Hope knew he aleady felt enough pressure that he didn’t need any from her. The poor guy was doing the best he could. He worked his hardest and he loved coming home. She smiled, feeling the warmth of her affections soothe her stress . . . for the moment. But lately, that pavor nocturnus always crept its way back. What was that expression? Love don’t pay the rent. And love certainly don’t cough up forty g’s for tuition.

  On Friday evening Charlie persuaded Hope to stop fretting about financial woes and enjoy herself at the intimate soirée that Polly was hosting “in honor of Will and Lell’s return.” The gathering consisted of a small group that had been carefully selected by Polly when she was in one of her less than benevolent moods. As a result, Meredith and her beau were out, and in their stead Nina Waters, who had given Polly a large discount on her trunk show linens, and Oscar Curtis, Henny’s mother’s godson who had recently moved back from the West Coast, made the cut. It was good not to have same-old same-old, thought Polly, as she surveyed the crowd assembling in her well-appointed drawing room.

  “So tell us, Oscar, how the hell could you survive life in that giant Gap ad aka San Fran? It’s so lily-white and boring there, the place is, like, covered in chinos. I swear I get claustrophobia the second I step off the plane,” said Polly, taking a break from her hostessing duties to plop down on the sofa next to Hope.

  Hope balanced her white wine glass on the monogrammed cocktail napkin in front of her, and glanced at Oscar Curtis with nervous pity. He was very handsome, but very awkward. He shifted uncomfortably under Polly’s gaze and squinted as if he was in fluorescent airport bathroom light. The poor guy looked as if he would rather be anywhere else than this posh dinner party. Little did he know that Polly was just starting her Spanish Inquisition, and there would be no escape for him now.

  “I worked all the time, mostly in Palo Alto, so I didn’t pay much attention. Could have been anywhere,” he mumbled, taking a gulp of his drink.

  “Well if you could have been anywhere, why did you stay there? I mean, the Internet exists for a reason.”

  “It was easier. Everyone’s out there.”

  “I just don’t know how anyone can live anywhere but New York. I feel like I’m missing out on something when I’m not here. I mean, even when I’m in Europe, I’m like, get me out of here after a while. You just feel so irrelevant everywhere else,” said Polly.

  “The world is big and New York isn’t the only place . . .” said Oscar, obviously wanting to end the conversation. Hope noticed his discomfort and tried to change the topic.

  “Lell! Come over here and show us your gorgeous wedding band,” said Hope, yelling across the room.

  Lell walked over and sat on the arm of the sofa. Her Indonesian tan was complemented beautifully by the brilliant yet subtle sapphire necklace that she wore over her gray Prada cocktail dress. “I’ve only been away three weeks and so much has happened! I didn’t even know Drew Vance was thrown out of the Union Club.”

  “Old news,” said Polly, rolling her eyes.

  “I didn’t know that either,” said Hope.

  “He got totally wasted and threw up everywhere. Chunks, apparently. I think he’s just suspended, there’s no way he’s expelled, his family practically founded the place.”

  “And Lila Meyer got engaged? Who to?” asked Lell.

  Oscar rolled his eyes as the girls started to gossip. He stood up abruptly without excusing himself and walked over to the windows, where he stood alone gazing at the view. Lell shot Polly a curious look, but she shrugged.

  “To some guy from some random place like Scotland or Australia. We’ll see if she makes it down the aisle,” said Polly.

  “When they get old and desperate they always go for the accent,” sighed Lell, now a full-on Bridget Jones smug-married.

  “So true. He’s probably from like, a trailer park in Essex, but everyone here is just dazzled by the fact that he calls trucks lorries,” laughed Polly.

  “I have to admit, the accent gets me every time,” said Hope.

  “Forget all that crap,” said Polly, once again taking charge of the conversation. “The big news is what Rosemary told me about Carlin Overland—”

  “Which is . . .”

  “You haven’t heard?” Polly looked both ways and leaned in with a stealthy whisper. “Gingivitis.”

  “No!”

  “Can you deal? That’s pretty embarrassing.”

  “You’re not kidding,” agreed Lell, repulsed.

  “Gingivitis is totally curable, isn’t it? I mean, they advertise it on TV,” said Hope.

  “Yeah, well, they advertise STDs and they’re not totally curable,” said Polly.

  “Isn’t gingivitis like, herpes of the mouth?” asked Lell.

  “God knows where Carlin’s mouth has been!” said Polly.

  “You guys! I can’t believe we’re talking about this, it’s plaque or something! Anyway, I want to hear all the details about the honeymoon,” interjected Hope.

  That’s my cue, thought Polly, rising. She couldn’t bear one more Bali story. Enough about Lell and her three-grand-a-night beachside cottage. “I’ve got to check on dinner.”

  In Polly’s cherry tomato dining room, amid the Matisse collages and the Bennison curtains, Hope found herself seated on a leopard upholstered Biedermeir chair next to the host himself. Polly always sat Hope next to Henny, and she always put herself next to Charlie. Sometimes Hope thought Polly had a little crush on her husband, although she would never admit it. She laughed really loudly and often at his jokes, and always compared her Henny unfavorably to Charlie. Whereas Charlie was easygoing and friendly, Henny was boring and uptight with a lead pipe lodged up his bum. People referred to him as “the cut-and-paste husband” because he was just an accessory in Polly’s world, a cardboard cutout that literally could have been anyone with a weenie
and a wallet. Well, anyone with the right credentials: lineage and four middle names.

  The seat on Hope’s other side remained empty for the first few bites of the goat cheese salad appetizer and Polly—with an eye roll—shouted over the guests that Hope’s dinner companion was running late. Just as Henny was concluding his story on helicopter skiing in British Columbia, Hope felt the empty chair next to her being pulled out, and then the soft wool of a man’s blazer brush against her arm.

  “Hey, John, glad you could make it,” said Henny, getting up and greeting his new guest with a firm handshake as he was introduced to the gorgeous girl he had brought with him.

  “Sorry we’re late.”

  “No problem, we started though.”

  “We couldn’t wait all night, John!” yelled Polly across the table.

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” he said with a warm smile.

  “Do you know your dinner partner? This is Hope Matthews. Hope, John Cavanaugh.”

  “I don’t believe I do,” said John, extending his hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Hope.

  Polly led John’s companion to the other side of the table. She was big on splitting up couples, which always bothered Hope. Once she had asked Polly why she always split everyone up—sometimes at different tables across the room—and Polly sniffed, “Oh it’s so boring to talk to your spouse all damn night!” Hope disagreed; after a long day of work, she missed Charlie desperately and hated parting with him for two hours while having to make an effort with new people. She hoped her dinner partner this evening was not the usual bore.

  John Cavanaugh was extremely good looking. Not in that pretty boy way, but in a very masculine and solid way. His confidence was immediately apparent, and he possessed a gallant smile that could relax anyone at a glance. With his dark hair and dark eyes he even looked a little like the late John F. Kennedy Jr., God rest his soul.

  Henny turned to Lell to continue his travelogue, and as Susan Wong, John’s other seating companion, was engrossed in her conversation with Will, Hope and John were left to chat.

  “Polly’s going to kill me for being late,” he said, leaning in and whispering.

  “No, don’t worry, it’s a blizzard outside,” she offered, comfortingly.

  “She doesn’t care, come on.” He grinned with a raised brow.

  Hope smiled. “Well, murder may be a stretch, but she may maim you.”

  “Maybe she’ll just torture me. I guess I deserve a good lashing.”

  Before Hope even realized what she was saying she blurted out, “Why, have you been a bad boy?”

  John looked at her and smiled. “Behave!” he teased in full Austin Powers cockney. “Naw, not really. Not too bad . . .”

  Normally Hope would never tease a stranger or engage in any sort of flirty banter, but something about John made her feel audacious. Charlie was across the table deep in conversation about new tax laws, and as soon as she caught herself batting her lashes at this sexy stranger, she flushed a deep crimson.

  “So how do you know the Mecoxes?” asked John.

  “I went to boarding school with Polly. How about you?”

  “I know Henny through work. I have a venture capital company.”

  “Oh, which one?” asked Hope, with interest.

  “Greenwich Equity.”

  Greenwich Equity. Even Hope had heard of that. They had just done some megadeal with all the record labels. Charlie was dying to get into the venture capital biz. He should have been sitting next to John.

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s yours?”

  “Yes, mine and one other guy. We started it a few years ago after we left Goldman.”

  “Wow.” She wanted to say her husband was looking desperately for a job in that field, but that would seem a little tacky.

  “What about you? Do you work?”

  “I was running the jewelry department at Frothingham’s—the auction house—but I’m on a temporary maternity leave. I have two sons under the age of three, so it just wasn’t possible to keep it up.”

  “My sister has two kids, and forget work. I mean, she does more work than I do running after those boys.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “Oh,” said Hope, glancing across the room at the woman John arrived with. She was spectacularly beautiful, probably a model, with short dark hair and olive skin. The antithesis of Hope, actually. Hope had a natural, fresh beauty—blond hair that swung just above her shoulders, large blue eyes and the clear smooth skin of an Ivory girl. She was the girl next door, if you lived in a nice neighborhood. Hope was approachable, whereas John’s date—who oozed style—seemed remote and glamorous.

  “Natasha is my girlfriend.”

  “Oh. She’s very pretty.”

  “Yeah,” said John with little enthusiasm. “But someday, I’d love to have kids.”

  “They’re the best. You look in their huge eyes and it’s a new lease on life, everything is so fresh. I feel like a new human since I had my little nuggets. They’re so unjaded, you know? They’re my best little pals.”

  Then Hope caught herself. “Sorry. Is it so deathly boring to hear a mom yammering about all her kiddie brood? Yawn.”

  “No, not at all! People these days are all so selfish,” he said, looking into Hope’s eyes. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone who is nurturing and actually cares about something other than herself.”

  John looked at Hope intently and smiled. She smiled back.

  In the cab home, Hope couldn’t wait to tell Charlie about John.

  “So he’s from Greenwich Equity—”

  “I know exactly who he is,” said Charlie, giving the driver their address.

  “Well, this could be good. I wanted to say something—”

  “You didn’t, did you?” asked Charlie, immediately anxious.

  “No, come on. I can be subtle. Give me a little credit, will you please?”

  “I know, it’s just, it has to be done carefully when you meet someone in a social setting like that. They’ll never think you’re unhappy with your job and looking, so they’ll never say, come in and talk to me.”

  “Do you want me to have Polly say something?”

  “No. She has zero tact.”

  Hope was relieved. She didn’t want Polly to know that Charlie was looking for a new job.

  “We have to think how to do this,” said Charlie.

  “Yeah. Well, maybe we need to have a dinner party,” suggested Hope.

  “We don’t have a dining room.”

  “Well, I can host one at the Links or King’s Carriage. Or the small room at Orsay.”

  “That’ll cost a fortune.”

  “But it’ll be worth it. We need to put in money in order to make money. That’s how business works.”

  “Thanks, my little Billie Gates. Let’s think about it tomorrow,” said Charlie, leaning his head against the window in the cab. “I’m beat.”

  Sometimes Hope felt so confined by their life she wanted to scream. Everything was claustrophobic and small. She and Charlie needed a break. They deserved it, for Lord’s sake. Please, prayed Hope, let something good happen.

  She was feeling dejected until she got home and went in to check on her boys. She loved watching them sleep, they seemed so peaceful and trusting. Hope ran her hand across their cheeks and tousled their hair, and then sat on the edge of the bed to watch them. Who was she to complain? Something good had happened—she had these beautiful little babies. That was all that mattered.

  chapter 10

  “Good luck, sweet pea!” cheered Douglas, as Julia modeled the outfit she’d chosen for her first day as Pelham’s special projects consultant at large. She had been installed in a killer office the Friday before and this was her official first day o’ biz with her fancy title, as well as her first duties reporting to her even fancier boss.

  “I just pray I’m not just Lell Pelham’s butt boy—”

  “
Girl, who cares if you are? You got the engraved business card with that major fucking title! You are on your way. Two words: expense account. Hellooo? You could inhale soufflés at La Grenouille daily and no one would stop you.”

  “Except my expanding waistline.”

  “With your crazy metab? Impossible. Trust me, you’re in such a good space right now.”

  “I guess . . .” she smiled, straightening the new jacket she had splurged on at Barney’s after Douglas and Lewis railroaded her into slapping down her Visa. It was not something that she could afford at all, but they convinced her she needed to invest in her wardrobe to look the part. She had never worn anything so expensive, it seemed almost obscene. She felt quite conspicuous wearing it after work to Girls, Inc., where she usually volunteered in her normal low-priced eclectic getups. But on the other hand, she saw how those PR girls dressed to the nines, and knew she had to look good in order to compete.

  “Lell seemed really nice. I just hope it goes well.”

  “You know what Lewis heard? Apparently at the bank there’s this guy who went to some prissy fucking fancy-ass boarding school with Willoughby Banks and apparently he was, like, engaged to some chick who he fully bailed on when he met Lell.”

  “Oh, really?” She had locked eyes with Will at the wedding a few times; she knew from his piercing gaze that this dude definitely was a big-time heartbreaker. “That’s sad. He just unloaded her?”

  “The bitch was discarded like yesterday’s Post. Some friend of his asked him about it and he just said, ‘Lell Pelham. Ka-ching!’ So creepsville.”

  “No way, you think he gold dug her? That makes no sense, isn’t he loadissimo? I hardly think she and her family would go for some grifter.”

  “He has some bucks, but more importantly he’s a full-on Social Register type, which they care about big time. That marriage was a perfect merger, like when all those rich American chicks married Brit royals so they could infuse the dilapidated castles with new world cashola. Symbiosis.”

  “Interesting.”