Nancy’s Theory of Style (9 page)

As Nancy and Derek approached the
mansion, she said, “Why doesn’t Zac Posen design a tote-bag size rocket
launcher? But before we could do anything useful, Mrs. Friendly’s super-secret
security team would whisk us away and we’d never be seen again.”

Derek glanced around the house and
grounds. “I see no guards.”

“No one ever has, but they see us. Daddy
says they’re all former KGB or Mossad. When Mrs. Friendly was a girl, someone
tried to kidnap her and she’s been under guard ever since.”

The theme of the house was “more.” More
turrets, more mullioned windows, more marble friezes, more statuary. Five
minutes after they rang the doorbell, the door was opened by a scrawny and
blank-faced old man in a misbuttoned gold blazer, striped pajama pants and
slippers.

“We’ll take four boxes of the Thin Mints
and one of the Gauchos,” he told
Nancy
.
Then he stared at Derrick and said, “Heard you drowned off the
Great Barrier Reef
after you were sent packing. Damned
nuisance.” Then the old man turned and shuffled off.

“The quaint and ancient retainer,”
Nancy
said, staring at
the open door.

“I fear that you’ve glimpsed my future,
Mrs. Carrington-Chambers,” Derek replied softly and made her laugh.

She saw it for the first time then, the
way that one corner of Derek’s lips went up in something that might be called a
smirk rather than a smile. It made her feel as if they were conspiratorial.

They followed the old man inside and
gazed in fascination at all the things that covered the two-story entry hall. The
walls were barely visible under stuffed animal heads, paintings, hat racks, and
mirrors.

“I wonder if he’s gone to announce us,”
Nancy
said to Derek.

He was staring in wonder at the wall. She
followed his glance and saw a mallard head mounted on a wood plaque beside a cubist
painting of female nudes.

The painting gave her a sense of deep
comfort. Beautiful, true things had that effect on
Nancy
. “She’s got an astonishing collection
of art.”

“Hellooo,” called someone from another
room. “Come on in.”

They followed the voice down a hall to a
long drawing room stuffed with heavy carved oak and maroon velvet furnishings. A
wall of windows had a glorious view of the white-capped gray-green bay.

Above the carved redwood fireplace was a
cartoon bright pop-art triptych portrait of Mrs. Friendly. When
Nancy
tore her eyes from it she spotted a tiny plump woman
in a
St. John
orange sweater and peach knit skirt perched on a brocade armchair.

Mrs. Friendly had never been a beauty,
her money and lively personality had drawn admirers. She’d been dying her hair
flame red so long that it had cycled in and out of fashion through the decades.
Now a darker scarlet hairpiece was pinned like a hat atop her own wispy locks. She
powdered her face with haphazard enthusiasm and huge, thick glasses were
propped on her button of a nose.

Mrs. Friendly stood, and the weighted-hem
of her skirt fell fluidly to the wrinkled “Suntan” stockings that showed just
above her purple suede and lambskin booties. “Did Greene show you in? Did you
see where he went?” Her cloudy blue eyes searched the room.

“He met us at the door,”
Nancy
said. “I’m Nancy
Carrington-Chambers, and this is my assistant, Derek Cathcart.”

“I know who you are, missy, and I know your
family, too, and your cousin Birdie, of course. Quite the adventuress, that
one.”

“She does like traveling,”
Nancy
said with a polite
smile and she thought, please, please, let’s not talk about Birdie.

“Come close and let me take a look at
you. Everything’s a blur these days, but I still like to look.”

Nancy
went to Mrs. Friendly who put her face
close and peered at
Nancy
.

“You seem pretty, but I’ll be able to
tell better once I have my cataract surgery. You know, they do it outpatient,
now, and it takes only a day to recover.”

“Science is astounding,”
Nancy
said and hoped that
she would be able to have a robot maid soon.

“Take a load off. If we’re lucky Greene
will show up with something to eat or drink. He gets upset if I ask one of the
girls,” Mrs. Friendly said and waved off a uniformed maid who’d come into the
room.

They sat on the deep, creaky sofa. Creaks,
except on floors and staircases, always seemed a little rude to
Nancy
. “We’re fine.”

“Gigi Barton is raving about with the
slumber party you’re arranging for her. I wonder how old she is now. She’s had
so much work done you’d have to saw her across like a redwood and count the
rings to know her age.”

Nancy
had checked the guest list yesterday
and knew that Mrs. Friendly hadn’t responded to her invitation. “I hope you’ll
be able to make it this Friday.”

“Lord, no! I made the mistake of going
to Gigi’s second wedding. Mr. Friendly and I woke up three days later on a tiny
island in
Belize
with a deed in his hand and the worst hangovers of our lives. It turned out to
be a good purchase though, because he loved to swing in his hammock there.”

As much as
Nancy
wanted to gossip, she knew she had to
act like a real businesswoman. “How fun! Now let’s talk about the annual gala.”

Mrs. Friendly adjusted her red wig and
said, “Do you know that unlike all the fancy fundraisers mine actually raises
money?”

Nancy
smiled. “I didn’t know that. But the
primary purpose of the other fundraisers is to promote the organizations. The
more impressive the party, the bigger annual donor base you’ll develop.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. My event
turns a profit, but it’s only one day of the year. The rest of the time, our
operating fund leaks like an old whore. I’m tired of writing the checks, so I
want you to bring in the glamorpusses and let them take over the society.”

As Mrs. Friendly spoke, Derek reached
into his inside pocket and brought out a small notepad and a silver pen. He looked
so comfortable taking notes, as if he’d spent his life transcribing
conversations.

Nancy
said, “I think there are a few ways we
can make the event more of a social-must!”

“Honey, talk straight. I can take it.”

Nancy
couldn’t help smiling. “Your fundraiser
is stuck in a scary time warp of egg-salad sandwiches and canned lobster bisque.
It’s tacky and depressing.”

Mrs. Friendly laughed. “Don’t I know it!
When I first joined, I tried dolling it up, but the hags on the board wanted me
to fetch their tea and keep my yap shut. I’ve been serving crappy canapés ever
since. Teach people not to get snotty with Mrs. goddamn Bentley Jamieson
Friendly.”

“But those hags are long gone.”

“It got to be a tradition, and Greene liked
the pinwheel sandwiches.”

As if summoned, her quaint and ancient
retainer shuffled into the room, pushing a drinks trolley atop which teetered a
frosty glass pitcher and a clatter of unmatched tumblers. He stopped in front
of his employer.

“What have you brought, Greene?” Mrs.
Friendly asked.

“If you like piña coladas and getting
caught in the rain…” he warbled. He poured a tumbler to the brim, stuck a pink
straw in it, and carried it out of the room, singing, “If you’re not into yoga,
and you have half a brain…”

“He remembers song lyrics perfectly,”
Mrs. Friendly said with an admiring tone. “He listens to whatever Cook is
listening to, and Cook is an old pothead. I hear an awful lot of Rupert Holmes
and the Doobie Brothers. On good days, we might get Tony Bennett or the Eagles.”

“Allow me,” Derek said, and he stood and
poured drinks for the women.

Mrs. Friendly looked up at him. “You’re
a nice stretch of a fellow. Let me get a good gander.” Derek bent toward her
and she gazed into his face. “You remind me of someone I knew once. Where are you
from?”

“Derek is English,”
Nancy
said.

“That’s how it is – the older I get, the
more I keep imagining that I’m seeing ghosts from the past. Pour a drink for
yourself, young man.”

Derek didn’t decline or accept, but politely
handed the women their drinks.

Nancy
took a sip of coconutty-pineapplely
goodness. “Yummy. It’s a drink and a dessert,” she said. “Your event has got to
be so incredible that people are clamoring to come even though we’ll triple the
cost of a table. The best tables, of course, will require a long-term museum
sponsorship that we can work out.”

“How do you plan to get people to fork
out?”

“We’ll give them something that’s unique
and thrilling.”

“You have no idea, do you, little miss?”
Mrs. Friendly said and then laughed. “Well, you couldn’t do any worse than me. Spend
what you need to spend, but don’t take me for a fool. I’m not about to give
away the Koh-I-Noor diamond as a party favor.”

Nancy
smiled and said, “I’ll draw up a
proposal and get back to you in a week.”

When she and Derek left the house,
Nancy
felt dizzy with
happiness, or possibly that second piña colada. “Derek, with your help, I’ll
make this an event that everyone will be talking about.”

When Derek left at 5:00,
Nancy
was still on the
phone with Sloane Seitz, reviewing plans for Gigi’s slumber party. Sloane had
been a popular grad student when
Nancy
was a sophomore, but she got married and left. Now Sloane was a single mother
who patched together freelance jobs to make ends meet.

“Let me read back my notes,” Sloane
said, “I’ll pick up the robes and the gifts, and make sure that the linens will
be delivered. I’ll meet the spa manager to review the schedule. I’m lucky the boys
are visiting Grammy this week so I can stay late at the party.”

“Lovely, Sloane. Ciao!” She hung up
before Sloane could recite another endless saga about her children.

Nancy
pulled out one of the six photo albums
from her wedding. Her cousin Sissy had designed the tulle and peau de soie
dress that made
Nancy
look like a beautiful and kind fairy princess. The photographer hadn’t done a
good job with the groom, though. Todd looked blockier in the pictures than she
remembered.

She was considering having Lizette
digitally removed from all her photos when the phone rang.

“Hello, Nanny,” Hester Carrington said.

Nancy
had given up objecting to the nickname
that had caused endless confusion when the family had employed nannies.

“Hello, Mommy. How are you and Daddy?”

“Wonderful!” Hester said too cheerfully.
“Todd told us you’re at the Château, and we decided to come into town. We’d
like to take you out for dinner tonight.”

Nancy
glanced at the time. It was 5:20 p.m.
and her parents calculated this call to ambush her. “Dinner would be lovely!”

“Lovely! Daddy’s already made
reservations at the hotel for six.” Hester and Julian Chambers, who were so
right in so many other ways, ate at a geriatrically early hour.

“Lovely! I’ll see you then. Love you!”

Nancy
freshened her makeup, revived her curls,
and put her shoes back on. Lint roller in hand, she inspected herself in the
mirror and removed stray hairs and particles of lint.

Traffic was awful, forcing
Nancy
to blare her horn
once, swerve dangerously around a cable car and cut off an eco-freak in an
electric car as she sped up Nob Hill. As wrong as Todd was on so many things,
he was right about the Mini; it was zippy.

There was a line of cars waiting for the
valet in the brick entry courtyard, so
Nancy
parked in front of a fire hydrant and hurried through the majestic glass portico
of the old hotel.

Even though Mr. and Mrs. Carrington
lived less than 40 miles away, they stayed overnight when they visited
San Francisco
, booking a
suite at the hotel where they’d met decades ago at a tea-dance.

Nancy
walked through the cream and gilt lobby
and glanced at the clock above the reception desk. It was 5:55. She waited anxious
minutes for the elevator to the restaurant on the top floor.

Chapter 6: The Fluid Rules of Today’s Fashion