Mercury in Retrograde (20 page)

“Anna did ask to meet, but of course my loyalty is to you, Jack, I was going to—”

Jack, eyeing Dana, interrupted Lipstick and said, “Aren't you going to introduce me to your guest?”

“Of course,” Lipstick said, looking away. “This is Dana Gluck. Dana, this is Jack Marshall and Bitsy Farmdale. And Thad Newton.”

“The third,” Thad added, staring at Lipstick.

“Shut up, Thad!” Bitsy hissed. “You're embarrassing me!”

Lipstick cringed, half out of embarrassment for him and half out of rage. This was the first time she'd seen him since they'd dated. She'd even broken up with him on the phone. He looked as handsome as ever. But something about him was different. Pathetically different.

Did I ever love him? Or was I with him because my parents liked the match and my society approved? It seems so…long ago.

“Hello,” Dana said and shook their hands. Except for Thad's. She ignored him—she knew who he was and how he'd treated Lipstick.

Thad didn't acknowledge Dana's slight but just nodded his head and murmured, “My pleasure.” And it was those two words that made Lipstick almost gag with pity for her ex-boyfriend.

In the two years they had dated, Thad had always tried to ameliorate any situation, even if it was to his detriment.

When, after two months of dating, Lipstick had asked if they were officially going steady and not dating other people, Thad
had said, “Of course, my love,” to her delight.

One time, after Lipstick insensitively laughed at Thad's patchwork madras pants, he'd said, “My fault.” And in bed, after he'd finished (once again) too early, Thad would mumble, “So sorry.”

Even when he contradicted Lipstick, Thad would stay true to form. Early in their relationship, Lipstick had tried to get him to go see a cool new band playing at Cake Shop, a bar on the Lower East Side—an area he deemed “unsafe” and “dirty.” When Lipstick had begged, Thad said simply, “Absolutely not.” It wasn't that he didn't want to go—it was that he couldn't. He physically couldn't disobey his social standards or (even more so) his mother Tabitha, who'd always warned him, “Our kind just don't go to certain places. Once you soil your hands, you may as well roll in the filth with the rest of the pigs.”

It had taken her a while, but right there in the middle of the Met Gala, Lipstick finally realized what Thad really was: a good-looking, socially acceptable, bland doormat.

 

“I must say, I'm quite impressed,” Jack said to Dana.

“As am I,” Dana answered, not quite understanding the misunderstanding that was taking place. “This is an amazing gala.”

“And so modest!” Jack gasped. “Lena, you have discovered an important talent.”

Dana looked quizzically at Lena, who had found a particularly interesting spot on the floor at which to stare. Thad Newton III was trying to catch her eye while Bitsy clutched his hand and stroked Jack's arm possessively with her other.

The trumpeters blasted the dinner announcement from the top of the stairs. Jack took Dana's arm. “You, my dear, will sit with me at my table as my guest,” he said, guiding her away from a slack-jawed Lipstick.

Dana looked panicked, her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she twisted back to look at her friend. “What is going on?” she mouthed to Lipstick. But there was nothing Lipstick could do. To defy Jack would mean an instant firing and a public scene. She looked at Dana helplessly.

“Sorry for ruining your moment,” Bitsy hissed. “Guess you'll just have to sit at your table by yourself, without your big, fat, fabulous designer. Or perhaps you can call your Soho bum to hold her place?”

“Oh, grow up, Bitsy,” Lipstick said, with an uncustomary viciousness. “She's not fat, and you don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think I do,” Bitsy said before walking off, leaving Thad standing there, still gawking at Lipstick.

“You…you look beautiful,” Thad said to Lipstick. “I've never seen you look like this.”

“Thanks, Thad,” Lipstick snapped, furious that her body was betraying her by blushing. “But maybe you should tell your girlfriend that.”

“About that. God, I'm so sorry. I…I miss you,” Thad stammered. “I really do. I—”

“Thad!” Bitsy's voice cut through the crowd. “Get over here.
Now
.”

Thad winced, his head bowed. “Must go, but can I call you?” he asked Lipstick.

“No, you'd better not,” she said and walked off to find her table, leaving Thad standing there, looking miserable.

Lipstick felt triumphant, almost vindicated—and something else. For all those months she'd felt humiliated by Thad cheating on her with Bitsy, she'd always wondered what she'd say to him when she finally saw him again. And now she didn't need to wonder anymore. Bitsy treated him like a servant. She almost felt bad for him. Almost. And for a moment Lipstick forgot what
deep trouble she was in, having not lied but unwittingly misled Jack into thinking Dana was Dauphin.

Thankfully, Lipstick's table was within spying distance of Jack and Dana, who were seated at the periphery of Anna's inner sanctum of ten tables.

Even though Lipstick's mother Lana was on the board of the Met, that didn't mean she—or anyone who attended the gala, for that matter—got to pick their seats. People often weren't seated with their dates if the dates were deemed inappropriate. In 2007 Christina Ricci had walked out when she found her boyfriend was not seated at her table. She clearly had never been to an Anna gala—where Wintour personally assigned everyone their rung on the social ladder and seated them accordingly.

Lipstick's table was considered a good one. It was just outside of Wintour's inner circle, but not as close as Jack's table, where he was forced to watch his rival all evening. Lipstick was placed in a position of social prominence—and, she was happy to note, Bitsy and Thad were on the other side of the room, insultingly placed behind the marble statue of Venus. At Lipstick's table, there was Helena Hoff, a
Vogue
contributing editor (and also the daughter of a Texas oilman); Marcus Semple, a prominent investment banker (who, despite being only thirty-five, was rumored to have taken home $150 million the year before); Jacques and Mario, a French performance art duo; and Arthur Winksdale, Ashley's husband, who'd been randomly seated at Jack's table but mercifully dispatched to sit in the seat that was formerly Dana's (Ashley was seated at Bitsy's table and looked like she wanted to slit her wrists with her butter knife). To the left of Lipstick was Kitty Foil, a seventeen-year-old actress who'd been raised in the Disney farm leagues but was just breaking out into superstardom, transitioning from tween to hot, sexy teen, thanks to a risqué photo
shoot by Annie Leibovitz in
Vanity Fair.
On Lipstick's right was Jann Elder, an attractive but self-absorbed writer/director type who was examining his reflection in the side of the large gold vase in the middle of the table.

Everyone had finally taken their seats. Doing her best to stick to her deeply ingrained societal rules and therefore engage in some sort of conversation no matter how odious the prospect was, Lipstick turned to Jann on her right and said, “So, what brings you here? Are you a huge fashion or feather aficionado?”

“My movie won the grand prize at the Sundance Film Festival,” the director said. He already looked bored.

“That's wonderful; what was it?” Lipstick asked, gesturing to the waiter to fill her glass of white wine while trying to keep an eye on Dana at the next table.

“
Meat,
” the director said, closing his eyes in anticipation of the squeal that usually followed his proclamation.

“Oh, no thank you,” Lipstick said, “I preordered the fish.”

“No,” he said impatiently, “my
movie
was called
Meat.
Didn't you see it? Meryl Streep was in it and, I don't like to brag, but I think it was the best performance of her career.”

“Really?” Lipstick said, slightly taken aback. She took a sip of her wine. “Better than
Silkwood
or
Sophie's Choice
? Better than
Kramer vs. Kramer
?”

“Please.” The director exhaled, rolling his eyes. “I mean, how hard is it to play a woman in anguish? Really. In all those roles all she did was cry, cry, cry, and yell. Typical female roles, which can be played by any woman. Isn't that just what women do anyway? In my film—which you'd know if you'd seen it—Meryl played a psychologist and really explored the depths of human emotions. It was just so…subtle.”

This is going to be a long night,
Lipstick thought as the
white-gloved waiters in tuxedos served the asparagus appetizer.

At Dana's table, things were only marginally better.

After Jack had stolen her away from Lipstick, he escorted her to his table and presented her to the six others already seated as, “Dauphin!” before ushering her to her seat beside his.

“Yes, I am wearing Dauphin,” Dana said, confused by Jack's excitement, thinking,
If he loves the dress so much, why doesn't he sit with Lipstick? She made it….

Dana had no clue who her tablemates were, except that they all seemed impossibly glamorous and haughty. The one exception was the skinny man with a potbelly who looked to be in his forties, sitting to her immediate right. He looked as out of place as she felt.

“I'm Gerard Applebaum,” the man said to Dana as she took her seat. Like everyone else, he was dressed in a tuxedo, but he was wearing a pair of beat-up Converse sneakers instead of high-gloss shoes. His thick glasses rested on a prominent Roman nose below his shiny bald pate.

“I'm Dana Gluck,” Dana said, placing her napkin on her lap.

“She's a
genius,
” Jack interjected, putting his arm around the back of Dana's chair. “An absolute ingenue who is destined to grace the cover of
Y
.”

“Wow,” Gerard said, “and what may I ask did you do to herald such an introduction?”

“I'm not quite sure….” Dana said, flustered, as she started
to blush.

“She's shy!” squealed Jack. “So rare these days. Dana, this is Gerard Applebaum, a very famous producer who has many Oscars.”

“All in my bathroom medicine cabinet collecting dust,” Gerard said. “Nothing to brag about, really. In my business you're only as good as your next movie, which, for me, is next year. So until then, I'm nobody. And frankly, enjoying it.”

“You don't seem like nobody to me,” Dana said. “But, then again, I'm just a corporate litigator, so what do I know?”

“A what?” Jack asked.

“A corporate liti—” Dana said before Jack turned away, his eye caught by the sparkle of the twenty-carat diamond ring on the guest to his left, Ann DeBeers.

“Oh my,” Jack said in an awed tone, “the famous DeBeers diamond. However did you manage to get that out of the family vault, Ann? Has your mother-in-law started speaking to you again?”

“He seems a bit flighty,” Gerard said to Dana sotto voce. “How do you know him?”

“I don't,” Dana said.

“Really?”

“Really. He's my friend's boss. I think there's been some confusion as to who I am and what I do.”

“And why is that?” Gerard asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“I'm not sure, but I think he thinks I'm a fashion designer, which is pretty far-fetched. I do enjoy expensive clothes but thanks to my job, most of them are expensive suits.”

“Ah, yes. I have a similar problem,” Gerard said. “When most people see me on the streets they assume I'm a bum. Little do they know I am a
designer
bum! It costs a lot to look so nonchalant.”

“I went through the Marc Jacobs phase as well,” Dana said
with a laugh. She was surprised to find that she was actually having a good time.

“Well, I don't care who you are or what you really do,” Gerard said, “I'm just glad you're here.”

“You are?”

“Please. Have you seen the blue-haired ladies at this table? Before you sat down, I was about to fake a stomach virus and bolt.”

“So why did you come?” Dana asked.

“It's complicated, but basically, because of my Oscars I'm invited every year. I used to come with my wife, who loved this kind of shindig.”

“Oh, you're married,” Dana said, trying to disguise the disappointment in her voice.

“Divorced,” Gerard answered. “As of March.”

“Me too,” Dana said, perking up. “Well, actually, as of last year.”

“Was it as bad as mine?” Gerard asked.

“Probably worse,” Dana said. “Unless your ex-wife left you for a Victoria's Secret model as well.”

“Does my secretary count?” Gerard asked. “She
was
pretty hot.”

“Seriously? Your secretary?”

“Seriously.”

“Wow.”

“Yep, they moved to a collective community in Marfa, Texas, to ‘explore their relationship through art'—I know, don't roll your eyes—and so now it's just me and my eleven-year-old son, Michael. Two guys taking on the city together.”

“Where's Michael tonight?” Dana asked.

“With the babysitter. I hired his old nanny to start babysitting three nights a week so I can try and have a life. Tonight's my first night out.”

“Mine too,” Dana said. “But why'd you come here for your inaugural night?”

“I came because I haven't really been going out much and thought I would get back on the bull and ride it.”

“Nice analogy,” Dana said.