Everybody Rise (24 page)

The implied meaning that Evelyn was in, or near to, Souse's circle made a tingle run up Evelyn's neck, even if she was getting into a deeper hole with her stories. “Oh, I'd been busy with work and just got to know Camilla better. This event has been delightful. It's always a hoot to revisit deb days.”

“It is, you're right. Keeps us young. Or keeps me young. You, you don't have to worry about that, do you?” Souse flitted off, and Evelyn, who did feel young in this crowd, wandered over to the platters of food, quiche, tabbouleh, and raspberry-lemon tartlets. Evelyn filled a small plate and tried to subtly suck out the tabbouleh's parsley from her teeth as she listened to the women talk. “Ani is in early to Princeton, but Michael only to Oberlin…” “I have known several people who have gone to Oberlin, and they came out just fine…” “We bought near Stockbridge…” “Chicken is all people seem to eat or serve anymore…” “The touring choir auditions…” “Americans ask always about Marie Antoinette and think it's interesting that we beheaded a queen.”

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Selection of Jamón

Evelyn watched her father through the glass of Bar Jamón. He was ringing with energy, pointing at one ham hock after another and then throwing his arms up into the air as he laughed at whatever he was saying. With no indictment yet, he and Leiberg Channing thought it would be best for everyone to proceed as normal. He was in New York for a settlement meeting and it must have gone well: his khakis were practically ballooning with pride.

He was standing at the marble bar, and the counter guy was waiting for him to order, but Dale was too busy delivering his monologue about the ham hanging overhead. Evelyn had selected their meeting spot, Bar Jamón, from
Zagat
, which said it was “Iberian chic” with an “insider's vibe”; it was close to where his meeting had been. She hoped it would be quiet, as her father got distracted so easily, and she needed to ask him for money. The last time she'd attempted this, in Bibville, news of the indictment had knocked her off track.

“Dad,” she said upon entering.

Dale turned and grinned. “I'm just looking at all this food. Now, we have ham where I'm from, but it's not ham that looks quite like this!” He examined the droopy-eyed counter guy, and Evelyn could tell he was looking for the jury-box response, the twitch of a smile and the slight creasing around the eye that indicated Dale had him, but it wasn't there yet. “So. What about ham, son?” Dale chuckled.

The young man lifted his heavy eyes and mumbled, “Jamón serrano, jamón ibérico de bellota, jamón ibérico de cebo,” pointing at the hocks of cured pig.

“No good old Virginia ham?” Dale asked.

The man looked devastated. “No.”

Dale laughed again, so heartily it practically bounced off the walls. “Well, Evie, your tastes certainly are getting sophisticated. Now, my good man, can I just have a plain black coffee?”

The counter guy set about making an Americano with grief-stricken movements as Evelyn and Dale sat down at one of the high tables, a candle flickering between them though it was light outside.

“Well, New York is not the town for me, but in the fall it's not too bad,” Dale said.

“Autumn in New York,” Evelyn half sang.

“What's that?” He signaled the man to bring over the coffee.

“It's counter service, I think,” Evelyn said.

“Right over here,” Dale said. To Evelyn's frustration, the guy brought over the coffee to their table. “Nothing a big tip can't fix,” Dale said loudly.

Evelyn made a face at the tabletop. She couldn't become annoyed with him; she was here as a supplicant, making a pitch for money. It was a ridiculous position to be in. She had tried so hard to support herself and had done a great job of it until recently, and now, as her father was being investigated by the government for bribery, she still had to come beg and allow him to pass judgment on her once again. Even the parental MasterCard had been canceled without explanation, so there was no backup source of funds.

The simple fact was she needed more money. She'd been able to somewhat keep up with her new social set so far, but the pace was quickening. In the past few weeks, Camilla had been pressing her to come to various events that were $500 or $750 apiece, and it wasn't like she could ask Scot or Preston to pick up the tab. The clothes, too; she couldn't believe how silly it sounded, but it was true. She had to have a whole slew of cocktail dresses, since wearing the same thing to events where she saw the same people was as weird as wearing the same jeans to work two days in a row. Those dresses were, even on a good sale, $600 each. Evelyn had ransacked the 401(k) from her textbook job, which helped for a while but disappeared fast. One key way to afford all this was to be able to afford it, like Camilla, in which case all the invitations were comped because the party organizers wanted Camilla on the step-and-repeat, and designers sent her dresses because they wanted the free publicity.

Everyone else had funds galore, if not from a job—and it rarely was from a job, except for the bankers—then from trust funds, parental subsidies, or other mythic sources. Evelyn wondered why, when she'd tried to be responsible her whole life, her parents didn't find her worthy of such support. Actually, to be precise, she knew exactly why: because her father claimed to believe in the value of frugality, even as he was busy buying the dreadful and no doubt expensive maroon blazer he was wearing. He appeared to be especially shiny and salesmanlike today just to test her.

“So how are you, honey?” Dale said.

“Fine, Dad. Tired today; I was at a benefit with Preston and Camilla last night that went until two.”

“I thought your boyfriend's name was Tate.”

“No. It's not Tate. It's Scot. Preston is one of my oldest friends. From Sheffield? You saw him at the Sheffield event.”

“Preston, that's right. He's that thin one. What does he do for work?”

What did any of these people do for work? Preston's ill-defined investment work meant, as far as Evelyn could tell, he played golf and took lunches. Camilla had quit her
Vogue
job, as she'd said she would; the final straw had been when, as the special-events staff started work on the next year's Costume Institute gala at the Met, Camilla had seen that Jessica Simpson was on the celebrity-invitee wish list and had thrown a fit.

Camilla's friends had part-time jobs that gave them plenty of time to do the benefit scene—global ambassador for a jewelry brand, or marketing consultant to Citarella, the gourmet store on the Upper East Side and in the Hamptons. Nick, who did work, was constantly late to parties, if he didn't miss them altogether, and Camilla had been getting increasingly furious with him. There wasn't a way to hold a job and do all of this, and in fact, the holding of a job seemed to disqualify you from ever really belonging in this group.

“Preston does investing stuff. But he's a Hacking on his father's side and a Winthrop on his mother's, so it's not like he really has to work,” Evelyn said. Yet money flowed his way still, thanks to his connections; Charlotte had been dumbfounded when she'd heard he'd made a bundle on a tech IPO that everyone in the market wanted in on.

“While I worked my way through law school I was a dishwasher, at a gritty old diner in downtown Chapel Hill.”

“I know, I know, Dad. I'm not sure Preston's entertaining a career in dishwashing, though. Most of my friends don't have full-time jobs.”

“That doesn't follow.”

“I think it's really hard to keep up with modern life and work all the time. It's sort of one or the other.”

“That can't be true, Evelyn. Your friends all say no thanks to work?”

“Not all my friends. Just, well. I work,” she said, shifting her weight on the stool and giving him what she hoped was a winning grin. It had been a relief, since she graduated from college, to have her own paycheck so she didn't have to do this song and dance, but that paycheck barely covered anything in her life anymore. “So, Dad,” she said. “I was hoping I might get a check from you, just as a cushion.”

“You're a grown-up. And you, I'm pleased to say, do have a job.” His eyes were looking behind her, at the menu written above the bar on a black chalkboard. “What about that. Pickled pigeon. Do you think they're getting the pigeons from the sidewalk? My man?” he hollered, apparently about to ask that question, but Evelyn waved the counter guy away.

“Dad, forget about the pigeon. What I was saying is, most people in New York get help from their parents, and on my salary, it's not exactly easy to keep up.”

“You're not most people. You were raised with some standards.”

“But Dad. I know it sounds dumb, but these benefits are really expensive.”

“Benefits, Evelyn? If you want to go to parties, you can pay for those parties.” He waved his hand at the counterman. “I think I just might have to try some of that special ham.”

Evelyn twisted around again, but the man was busy with another customer. She turned back to her father. “The benefits are part of my work, and I'm just asking for the smallest bit of help.”

Dale moved his lips to one side as Evelyn caught sight of her mother walking into the restaurant. Barbara wore the giant sunglasses that she had lately started to wear from first light until dusk. She carried a lilac Bergdorf's bag, though Evelyn could see a larger Duane Reade one crammed into it.

“Mom, Dad and I were just talking about whether I could get some extra money going forward. All of these benefits and dinners and trips add up,” Evelyn said.

“I was telling Evelyn that I do not want to step in to fund a social life,” Dale said. “If it were true living needs, that might be another matter, but I don't think a party dress qualifies as a necessity.”

“Your pocket square cost two hundred dollars!” Evelyn spat.

“I made my money and can spend it as I want, just as you can spend the money you make as you want.”

“Right. Silly me.”

“I've had this argument with your father for decades, Evelyn. He has no idea what it costs to maintain a semblance of a social life,” Barbara said. She still hadn't taken off her sunglasses. “Are we supposed to sit at this communal table?”

“Mom,” Evelyn said. “Just sit. It's supposed to be like Spain.”

Barbara grudgingly balanced herself on a stool. “Dale, Evelyn is having the time of her life, and that doesn't come for free.”

“Then she can pay for it. Simple as that,” Dale said.

They were all fuming and all looking at different walls. The counter guy approached, evaluated them, and retreated.

Finally, Barbara said, “Your father's right, dear. Budgeting is important.”

“Mom.” Evelyn was exasperated.

“How's the apartment search going?” Barbara said.

“What?”

“Evie was planning on moving,” Barbara said, to Evelyn's surprise; she wasn't. “Her apartment now is rather dangerous. The location, that is. We'd been talking about her moving west of Lexington, where it's less seedy.” Barbara shot Evelyn a conspiratorial smile. “Wasn't there an incident outside your apartment recently, Evelyn? A safety incident? That's why we'd been talking about the move.”

“Right,” said Evelyn, getting the hint. “Right. The apartment I'm looking at is quite a bit more expensive, though. Because it has twenty-four-hour security, which is important these days, because of the crime. It also has an alarm system.”

“I didn't think your neighborhood was high crime,” Dale said.

“It's becoming so, with the projects; there are lots of muggings, and where I am just doesn't feel that safe at night,” Evelyn said. High crime in that occasionally a teenager from Brearley stole some nail polish from Duane Reade, but she didn't need to specify that. “The new building isn't that much more money. It's just a few hundred more a month. I think that's invaluable in terms of me feeling secure.” She felt bad as she watched her father consider this, but also remembered what her mother always said: that because he was insistent on controlling the money, he was the one who forced them to act this way.

“Where's the new apartment?” he said.

“It's, um, Sixty-eighth. East Sixty-eighth. Just off Park.”

“It's a few hundred more a month?”

“Right.”

“I guess that's reasonable,” he said. “I want you to get some Mace, too.”

“Of course.” She and her mother smiled at each other. Evelyn would stay at the Petit Trianon, easy enough to conceal from her father since he never visited, but the difference in “rent” would mean $400 more a month straight to her. After just a few months of that, she calculated, she could afford the Chanel cap-toe ballet flats she'd been coveting. Budgeting wasn't so hard.

“New York is full of crime.”

“I know, Dad.”

Her phone rang and she looked down. She had promised to meet Camilla for a pedicure in the Village and needed to leave momentarily. She picked it up and told Camilla that she was at Bar Jamón, trying to wrap up with her parents, and she'd hurry to Jin Soon afterward.

Mission accomplished on the money, Evelyn was asking her father questions about the Tar Heels' football season ten minutes later, when a gust of cold air and pavement smell announced the arrival of someone from the street. Evelyn turned around and saw with a start that Camilla was cantering toward them. Evelyn just had time to turn back to her parents and whisper, “That's Camilla Rutherford. Don't—”

“Hello!” Camilla called out merrily. “Mr. Beegan. Mrs. Beegan. It's such a pleasure. I'm Camilla Rutherford. I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I was nearby and Evelyn said you were here. I couldn't pass up the chance to meet you.”