Everybody Rise (35 page)

She stood up, shaking, the cold predawn light from the room's windows sucking the color from the room and from her body. She listened for the flush of a toilet or the shuffle of his feet, something to explain where Jaime had gone, but the room was too silent; she could hear only a few chirps from birds outside and the scratching of some rat or squirrel, but there were no footsteps, no sounds of motorboats, no signs of human presence.

She quivered, trying to keep her nausea from rising up, but couldn't, and ran to the bathroom. Here, too, a flash from last night: she had been in here giving him a blow job. Had she followed him into the bathroom? Her armpits smelled of earth and sex. The first heave came up and she remembered Jaime saying, “Are you sure I'm not taking you away from your friends?” She had kept forgetting his name and had avoided addressing him directly at all. Flash: Her sloshing “Can I cut in?” as she heaved herself from her chair when Jaime and Phoebe were dancing to “Hollaback Girl.” Flash: Evelyn clutching his knee as she had discussed the importance of charity and $25,000 donations being such a building block. Flash: She had pushed him onto the couch. She had wrapped her legs around him. Flash: She tried to unbutton his jeans with her teeth before he pushed her head up with his hand and unbuttoned his jeans himself, one-handed. Flash: Some stupid idea she had read in
Cosmo
at the nail salon about using hair to titillate men during blow jobs. Jaime sitting there, arms folded behind his head, as Evelyn had swirled her blond hair back and forth over his prick, and erupted in what she hoped was a sexy moan. Flash: “No teeth—don't use your teeth.” Flash: Evelyn crawling up to him after the blow job, hair a clumpy mess, him refusing to kiss her, her trying to be light and lively, saying, “Your turn,” him saying, “Mmm, I don't think so.” Flash: Evelyn pulling the racket bracelet along his body. They had had sex—she remembered him grunting on top of her, though not how they'd gotten there—and he hadn't even taken off his jeans fully; she remembered them chafing against her legs. Then he had gotten up, and she'd wondered if he'd wrap her in his arms like Scot did, and instead she listened as the water ran, and there was the
foom
of him pulling on his shirt and then she saw the scarf coming at her. A pashmina, light pink. “I'd like to see you in just this,” said Jaime. It had settled on her face, and she did not know what to do, and then the room whirled around until she fell asleep.

Now, in the dark, kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, her eyes watered and dropped the tears straight into the bowl, and she heaved out yellow pools of the Scotch mixed with stomach acid. She was gripping the toilet seat, shaking with the cold, her stomach jetting out stream after stream of bile. Finally, stomach empty, Evelyn pushed herself up and limply threw her wrist against the light switch. In the clean mirror, she saw her clotted, oily hair, her smudged mascara and the dark purple shadows encircling her eyes, her colorless skin, the yellow puke outlining her mouth.

Moving as if through a thick custard, she turned on the cold water, cupping it against her face, but then her shoulders slumped forward and her head dropped into the sink, and the water subsumed her hair, capturing the blond strands in a rush of wet darkness, pouring down her back and arms and onto the floor, soaking her dress. Her feet stood in a puddle when she flung her head upright, red and gasping for breath. She used toilet paper to wipe the mascara from her face and clean off the counter, and flushed it all, flush after flush after flush. She'd have to get back to the main house, and get her hair washed, without anyone seeing her. Didn't she mention to Jaime that she went to Sheffield? That she had debbed and was from an old Baltimore family and was helping out at the Bal Français? He would've spent the night if he had just known her better, known that she was really somebody. Hadn't she signaled that?

Jaime hadn't bothered to shut the front door; anyone could have seen her as she lay there naked with her slutty scarf cover-up, she thought. She heard the ruffle of bird wings beat past the window, and a faraway squawk. She mushed her hands over her eyes and looked through the gaps in her fingers as if she expected a different scene to manifest itself, but it was only the dregs of last night. A fat black fly alighted on the oozing Camembert and began to suck at its pooling fat.

It wasn't until she looked at her knee, scratched and smeared with dirt, that she remembered falling, and remembered what had happened with Preston. She looked at the living room and saw his jacket was still there. He had fled. She had betrayed him, had made his deepest secret seem like a piece of gossip, and he had fled. She touched the jacket material, but didn't know what to do with it, so she left it on the armchair.

Evelyn staggered back to the main house in the gray light, getting up to her room without anyone seeing her. She was in bed. Asleep, awake, asleep. Then footsteps. A knock. A dream about her teeth falling out. Queasiness. Go to sleep. A dream about signing up for English at Sheffield and not going to a single class and it turned out she had never graduated. Sounds from downstairs. She was missing out already. Minutes, maybe hours, later, the word “omelet,” which she shook off, receded into grayness, felt sick, rolled over.

Later, a sound. Evelyn pulled her encrusted eyes open. Daytime. Late daytime. It was a knock. “Evelyn?” Camilla. “Time to rise. It's ten. I think I want to get on the road early. So you can either take the train later or go with me now.”

Jaime. Last night. Jaime. Scot. Camilla would kill her. Everyone would kill her. This was really bad. This was really bad. Evelyn shoved her wrist, still with the bracelet on, under the comforter. The rest of her stayed still, her heart racing from the sugar of the alcohol and the problem she had created. “Okay,” she said back; her voice was cracked and dry. “How soon are you leaving?”

“An hour.”

“Just let me shower.”

On the way to the bathroom, she heard Jaime in the kitchen downstairs, saying something about making some toasted bread to go along with the eggs.

Of course he was making toast for her. Of course everything was fine. Jaime liked her, remember the seconds he'd let his hand sit on top of hers, the unbelievable attraction at the Lake James Club, and the way he had told her what a mischievously pretty—was that it, or just mischievous, she couldn't remember—girl she was, the way he'd hung around her after everyone left? She couldn't be some random girl he had slept with. She couldn't be that, some throwaway middle-class aspiring girl, another suitcase in another hall. This had to be the start of something serious. He had mentioned his mother—who talks about their mother unless they're serious? Meeting at Lake James was such a cute story, it practically vaulted them to the first slot in the
Times
wedding announcements. He would want to settle down soon, and Evelyn would be the perfect wife to accompany him to all his functions. She had gambled on this and she had to have won. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

But Scot. Put it away, she told herself. Don't think about it. Don't think of his big grin when he leaned on his elbow and looked at her on the Sunday two weeks ago when he woke up before her. There hadn't been another way, she told herself; she couldn't have broken up with Scot without knowing there was something definite with Jaime. People cheated. Kennedys and Paleys and Roosevelts cheated. She wasn't married, hadn't vowed to stay faithful. She was doing it for her family. She had done the right thing.

And Preston. Put that away, too. Friends said stupid things. Friends forgave. It was okay. It would be fine.

Evelyn got up out of bed, pressing a gold racket against the soft flesh of her palm. As she passed Camilla's room, she unhooked the bracelet's clasp and was about to deposit it on Camilla's dresser when a creak on the stairs made her jump. She refastened it and hurried into the bathroom. Turning the shower water as hot as it would go, she scrubbed and cleaned until her skin felt raw. The bracelet was wet when she stepped out, which meant she couldn't leave it on Camilla's bureau without raising questions, and, she reasoned, wouldn't Jaime wonder where it had gone when she saw him next? She picked up her duffel and tucked the bracelet into a side pocket.

Downstairs, she found Nick and Camilla downing coffee in the small family kitchen used for breakfast and snacks. “So you want to leave with us?” Camilla said.

“It's that or the train?”

“Yes.”

“Is Jaime going later?”

Jaime then walked through the kitchen. “Hey,” he said, tilting his head at Evelyn.

“Are you leaving later, Jaime? Could I get a ride?”

“I might leave soon. I'm not sure. I have to do some business on the way back, so you should really go with Camilla.”

“So go get your stuff, Ev. We've got to move,” Camilla said.

“I'm actually going to do a call now, so I'll see you back in New York, man,” Jaime said, addressing this to Nick. To Camilla, he said, “Thank you so much for the lovely weekend. It was amazing.” Camilla leaned in to kiss him twice on the cheek, and Evelyn stepped forward to do the same, but he had stepped back and was flipping through a catalogue on the table. “I'll see you all back in New York, sooner rather than later, I hope,” he said.

This phrase reverberated through Evelyn's head as she brought her duffel downstairs, and by the time the Sachem boat pulled in, she wondered if it was meant especially for her. On the car ride, she analyzed it further. He knew her number. Didn't he know her number? She had a sudden still image of her sitting on the floor with her phone and asking for Jaime's number, and yes, there, at 3:02
A.M
., was an outgoing text from her to a 917 number: “hi its ev come back soon.” So she had texted him in the middle of the night. Way to play hard-to-get, but he would call soon. He had to. She left the phone in her lap, in case it buzzed, and watched the long stretches of green between Northway exits roll past out the car window.

Jamie would probably call tonight, so as not to look too eager. Or even tomorrow, once he was home and settled in. Definitely by tomorrow. She fiddled with the seat-belt buckle and tried to make time pass, but her head was throbbing and the dark self-loathing she had been trying to keep at bay since she woke up was hovering just around the edges of her consciousness. She checked the dashboard clock. It was twelve-fifteen. Her brain was a hungover muddle, first castigating her about Scot, switching to anxiety that that racket bracelet was still in her bag and she was now a thief in addition to a cheater and a liar, then zooming to worry that she was done and her family was done and it was all over. She was playing her last few cards. This had to have worked.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Le Bal Français

It had been six days since her return from Sachem. Six days without hearing from Jaime. Six days of the rent people and the Barneys people and her parents and—no, no, no, no, no, she wasn't going to think about that today. Not today. Today was the day of the Bal. Nothing would ruin this day.

A voice mail from her father sat in her in-box, but Evelyn let it sit. Nothing could ruin this day. Preston hadn't called. He had been supposed to attend the Bal after-party but Evelyn knew that was out now. Evelyn had begun composing e-mail after e-mail to him, but beyond the “I,” she didn't know what to say, didn't know how to address the version of herself she'd been on that deck. She wouldn't think about that today. Camilla, too, had been slow to get back to her, and that could be—no, no, no, not today. Not today.

At five o'clock on the dot, Evelyn walked into the Plaza with her Naeem Khan garment bag in hand. (She'd called Naeem Khan PR and promised coverage of the ball, of herself, and of whom she was wearing in both the
Times
and
Vanity Fair
, which, she reasoned, wasn't entirely not going to happen.) The crying she'd allowed herself after she got home from Sachem, the sodden tissues and the tear-stained shirt and red eyelids, were Visined and washed and eye-creamed out. Evelyn was in control now.

She checked the suite upstairs, where the debs were chattering about a guy from Princeton who had friend-requested three of them on Facebook. She almost banged heads with Jennifer as she rounded a corner, and the look in the girl's eye—pure loathing—was one that made Evelyn dig her fingernails into her palms. But this night was not about Jennifer, she reminded herself. She had not worked so hard to get here so some eighteen-year-old could make her feel bad. She headed to the ballroom to help with preparations.

Margaret/Push and Souse were already there, making tiny adjustments to items on the silent-auction table and giving sharp instructions to the servers about when to clear the salad course. Evelyn was starting to approach them when her phone rang. Seeing it was her father's cell phone, she silenced it and sent the call to voice mail.

“Mrs. Faber,” Evelyn said, smiling.

“Evelyn, isn't it?”

“It is.”

“You look lovely. What a pretty dress.”

“Thank you. As do you. Wythe looks terrific, of course. I just saw her upstairs.”

“She does? Good, good; getting her to wear a dress, you can imagine the challenge there. Let's hope she leaves her sneakers behind for the presentation.”

“I'll make sure of it.”

Souse came hurrying over from the other side of the room. “Evelyn! Hello, dear. Where's Camilla? Isn't she supposed to be with you?”

“I haven't heard from her, to be honest. I thought she was planning on coming at five, but I'm not sure where she is.”

Souse threw up her hands. “Children,” she said to Margaret. “This is her sister's ball and she's on the committee. You would think she could bother to show up when she said she would.”

“At any rate, Phoebe looks lovely, and I was just telling Mrs. Faber that everything is running smoothly,” Evelyn said.