In Too Deep (10 page)

get the party started

“What could she have been thinking ? ” Sophie said with
obvious disdain, pointing at a photograph of a girl swathed in a poofy white marshmallow of a dress that looked as if it would be more suitable for a nine-year-old’s ballet recital than a sixteen-year-old attending the biggest party of her life—it positively screamed New Jersey Turnpike.

“Well,
you
don’t have to wear it,” Sophie’s mother, Phyllis St. John, said with an exasperated sigh as she smoothed her freshly blunt-cut dark bob with one hand, her diamond and emerald rings sparkling in the light as she obsessively crossed and uncrossed her long legs swathed in sheer, cranberry-hued silk stockings that perfectly matched her nubbly tweed Chanel suit.

“Thank
God
,” Sophie snapped, closing the heavy, leather photo album spread across her lap, and took a swig of her Diet Coke, sneezing as the bubbles promptly went up her nose. Sophie crossed her arms over her chest and looked around Randi Gold’s tasteful, subtly chic black and white office.

Randi was one of Manhattan’s premier party planners, focusing exclusively on upscale sweet sixteens that not only broke the bank, but usually left Daddy crying to his accountant. Towering over the competition at six foot four, and tipping the scales at well over two hundred and fifty pounds, Randi was a force of nature with a personality to match. He smiled at Sophie and Phyllis with lips that shone with just the tiniest application of sheer gloss, and smoothed down his pink and white-striped tie that perfectly matched his baby pink dress shirt with French cuffs, four-carat diamond cufflinks sparkling at his wrists. He smoothed back his close-cropped blond hair with a hand heavily laden with diamond rings. To Sophie, Randi looked like a huge, bloated, and blond Baby Huey—or a character out of Alice in Wonderland. She half expected his brother, Tweedledee, to come barreling through the doorway at any moment . . .

“Would you be interested in renting out some wildlife for the event?” Randi asked, pulling out a brochure from a private zoo upstate that leased exotic animals to film productions and the occasional ultra-lavish birthday event, his fingers like plump, pink sausages. “The ocelot has been exceptionally popular lately—it has that leopard style, but much more sleek, the pattern more refined.”

“But aren’t they . . . dangerous?” Sophie asked as she pictured herself walking into the party flanked by two totally muscular, bare-chested men walking a pair of ocelots that prowled across the floor, the cats shackled to long, silver leashes, the chains studded with intricate rows of Swarovski crystals.

“I guess they could be considered a bit of a liability,” Randi said, rising from the sleek, sexy curves of his white leather office chair, the back of which was encased in a hard, reflective shell of perfectly smooth black fiberglass. “A girl lost a finger to one not too long ago,” he went on, his voice conversational, showing no hint of concern. “But thank God she did—I heard the beast took a most hideous and garish diamond ring off with it. An animal that looks that good couldn’t
help
but have a tremendous flair for fashion, wouldn’t you say?”

Sophie shrugged and looked down at her own fingers, her perfect oval-shaped nails tipped with a smooth curving line of white. A thin silver ring holding a small but perfectly clear and exquisitely cut diamond sat on the first finger of her right hand. It was a far cry from a fashion violation, Sophie thought, remembering the day she went to pick it out with her mother (
supposed
mother, Sophie corrected herself) just after her thirteenth birthday. Nothing a fashionista jungle cat would want to do away with. But she certainly didn’t want to run the risk—Sophie knew from experience that it was often the people with the most unfortunate taste who were the most intensely vindictive.

“I think we’ll skip the ocelots,” Sophie said, looking over to her fake mom, who was examining the rings on her own fingers, a far off look in her eyes.

“What about doves?” her mother said, looking up from her jeweled hands and back to the exotic animal farm brochure that Randi had handed to her. “A whole flock of doves, flying out of cakes or boxes or vases as the guests all walk into the room. What about that?”

“Doves could be fun,” Randi said thoughtfully, his hands floating over the elongated, curved paperweight that sat on his desk, which seemed to have been carved from a single, impressively sized and beautifully grained piece of ebony, mother-of-pearl detailing running along its top edge.

Sophie shuddered and shook her head quickly from side to side. Doves? White birds in general belonged at weddings and funerals—not fabulous, exclusive sweet sixteen parties.

“But how about flamingos instead?” Randi wondered aloud, his blue eyes glazing over dreamily. “A hundred flamingos flying around a swiftly flowing, pink-white blur of a room. You dressed in pink—but not cute little-girl pink,” Randi said, his hands flying into action, each pale-skinned finger a lithe tropical bird, pecking its way through the pile of glossy brochures covering his desk. “I want you in something that’s more high school sexpot meets elegant French colonialist. A hint of Indo-china. The scent of jasmine.” He flipped viciously through a thick three-ringed binder, Sophie’s anxiety mounting by the second as someone’s dream dress flew by with each turning page. Where was hers? The pages stopped, his hands finally relaxed. “This,” he said, his voice full of ceremony, “
this
is the dress for your party; the dress for you.”

His finger pointed to a cascade of pale pink chiffon that tumbled to a terrified-looking blond model’s ankles like a cascade of bubble gum-flavored whipped cream. The dress had a huge, flouncing skirt, complete with a bright pink bow on the back. Sophie felt her face drain of blood as she stared down at the photograph. It didn’t matter in the slightest that the dress was Valentino, or that it was a couture piece, it was, bar none, the ugliest dress Sophie had ever seen—and there was no way she was going to be caught dead wearing it on the most important night of her life. Sophie leaned forward and pursed her lips, resting her hands on her knees.

“Ooooh, it’s absolutely darling!” Phyllis cooed, grabbing Sophie’s arm excitedly. “Randi, you’re an absolute genius!”

Randi blushed an alarming shade of pink that almost matched the horrific dress in front of them. Sophie stared at both of them incredulously. Had everyone gone totally psychotic? She’d look like a walking cupcake in that thing, a bridesmaid at some awful Long Island City wedding where the groom wore a white tuxedo and the cake was bought at a goddamn supermarket!

“Randi,” Sophie began, trying to be delicate, “I don’t think you really understand how important this night is for me.”

“Honey.” Randi laughed, showing off rows of teeth as white and large as tombstones. “I do four hundred of these parties a year
minimum
—I know
exactly
how important this night is for you.”

“Randi,” Sophie began again, trying to stay cool, “I don’t think you’re really listen—”

Sophie sighed exasperatedly as her mother’s phone began to buzz violently from the depths of her caramel Birkin bag. Phyllis shot Randi an apologetic smile, flashing her new custom shaded veneers.

“Excuse me for a moment, you two,” she said staring down at the screen of her metallic gold, D&G Razr while heading toward the door. “I simply
have
to take this.”

As soon as the door closed, Sophie knew she only had a few minutes to make Pinkberry listen to reason. Sophie smiled enthusiastically, dropping her voice and almost whispering. “I don’t know if my . . . mother mentioned this,” she began in a tone of voice that suggested that she alone had the info to Brangelina’s whereabouts at this very second, “but there is a serious VIP who’ll be in attendance that night . . . someone very
important
.” Sophie paused for dramatic effect, sitting back on the chair and crossing her legs.

The slightly miffed look on Randi’s face slowly gave way to something resembling interest.
Way to be predictable
, Sophie thought, watching the greedy expression slide over his face. Everyone was such a total starfucker.

“I’m adopted,” Sophie said, watching as the gossip-hungry look slid off Randi’s face and was replaced by a gaze of obviously practiced sympathy. “And my biological mother is Melissa Von Norton.”

Sophie watched as Randi’s face changed from fake sympathy to total starfucker in a matter of seconds. “Melissa Von Norton the
actress
?” Randi said with obvious excitement. “Oh my God, I just
adored
her in
Pale Blue Sea
!” Randi’s face flushed pinkly again, and he waved his hands in the air giddily, his heavily jeweled fingers flashing in the light.

“So, now you see exactly why this night is so special to me,” Sophie explained as the door opened with a squeak, filling the air with the scent of Bond No. 9’s Chinatown perfume, which always smelled to Sophie like a combination of flowery incense, and awful Indian takeout.

“Okay, I’m back,” Phyllis said brightly, reaching over and placing a hand on Sophie’s own, her face falling slightly when Sophie inevitably shrugged it off and tried to lean even farther away in her chair. “What did I miss?”

“Well, now that Sophie’s filled me in on her . . . celebrity connections,” Randi flipped the book in front of him closed with a flourish of his wrist, and stage-whispered suggestively, “I’m thinking of going in another direction altogether.”

“Celebrity connections?” Phyllis asked weakly the color slowly draining from her expertly bronzed face. As she watched her mother’s expression change from hopeful to a look that screamed utter despair, Sophie almost wanted to throw her arms around Phyllis and tell her that everything was going to be all right, that she forgave her. But the problem was the word “almost.” Almost wasn’t definitely, and, at that moment, Sophie felt anything but definite about the entire concept of family—much less ready to forgive her own.

“Sophie, here, has just informed me of her . . . parental situation,” Randi said smoothly as Phyllis turned deep red and contemplated her fingernails. “And that got me thinking at a whole new, infinitely more fabulous level!” Randi stood up and began pacing back and forth excitedly. “What if we did something a little retro—but with a modern twist? I was thinking that, as a theme, we could revisit Studio 54!”

Sophie began to smile again. She loved anything retro or vintage, and Studio 54 had been the home of glamour and glitz all through the 1970s. And there were so many amazing designer options to choose from—she could already see herself draped in a Grecian-style vintage Halston gown, her face and hair sparkling with discreetly placed gold glitter . . .

“. . . red carpet and velvet ropes, busboys in hot pants, the most fabulous drag queens in Manhattan, and of course we’ll need to hire a few actors to masquerade as essential partygoers like Warhol and Grace Jones . . .” Randi went on talking faster and faster as Phyllis nodded her head dizzily, trying to keep up with Randi’s barrage of requirements. Sophie didn’t need to hear anymore—as far as she was concerned, it was a done deal.

“And, OH!” Phyllis yelled out, causing Sophie to almost jump out of her chair in fright. “I have something to tell you, darling!” Her mother turned to face her and placed a hand on Sophie’s arm, squeezing lightly—and this time she didn’t dare shrug it off. “The phone call a moment ago? That was the producers from the Pulse Network—your father pulled a few strings, and they want to film the party for a documentary series they’re doing on over-the-top sweet sixteens! Isn’t that just
perfect
?”

Sophie practically stopped breathing. She’d been watching
My Spoiled Sweet Sixteen
from the second it began airing over two years ago. Being able to have a completely amazing party,
and
be immortalized for future generations to envy was more than she’d ever dreamed of. Sure Madison’s sweet sixteen bash at Bungalow 8 had performances by Fergie and the Black Eyed Peas, and featured invitations engraved on the lenses of specially designed pairs of Prada sunglasses, but Sophie’s party was going to be legendary, and, to top it all off, not only were there going to be actual celebrities in attendance, she was going to
be
one herself—just like her mom!

“That’s amazing!” she cried, jumping to her feet and throwing her arms around her mother before she knew what she was doing. As Phyllis hugged her back, Sophie couldn’t help but feel grateful to her mother for knowing exactly what she wanted, even before Sophie knew herself. As she breathed in the scent of her mother’s heavy floral perfume, Sophie couldn’t help thinking that having two moms might not be so bad after all—even if the one currently hugging her was a liar . . .

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Phoebe,

It was a pleasure to meet you yesterday, and I’m looking forward to a busy and productive school year!

I’ll be in touch with all of your teachers at Meadowlark, and will instruct them to send me weekly progress reports detailing your class standing and academic progress. I’ve also requested that your parents send me a complete copy of all your academic transcripts from sixth grade to the present. Unfortunately, your academic achievements before the sixth grade are not kept on file, so if you could supply me with the contact information for your instructors from kindergarten through fifth grade, I’ll get in touch with them personally. We’re getting a late start—I prefer to begin this process while the student is in the eighth grade—but I intend to more than make up for lost time! As soon as I review this material, I will formulate a program and e-mail you a copy of the game plan. I’ve also instructed your parents to hire a tutor for your upcoming SAT exam.

Why don’t we do breakfast before school next week and discuss this further—say Wednesday at 7 A.M.? I’ll call with details and a tentative schedule later this week.