Tasteless (5 page)

“Yeah, I’m not getting married here,” Zoe said, shaking her head with fervor.  She pushed herself up and away from Gavin, her fiancé, who also happened to be Gemma’s brother.  “First of all, it’s like paparazzi haven! A glass building? I’m practically inviting them to the party.  And no way in hell am I sending out an invitation to my grandmother that will have her flying from her little house in Oklahoma to come see her granddaughter get married in some club in the Lower East Side.”

“But it’s a
nice
club,” Gavin insisted, gesturing up at Greyta’s steel-lattice and glass ceilings and walls, styled to resemble a greenhouse.  “Look at this view.”

“I’m
not
getting married in a place where the view is of the grimiest part of the East River on one side and aging wannabe hipsters on the other,” Zoe yelled, swinging her cocktail glass hard enough to slosh some of her martini onto Sam’s lap.  “And if you want to get married here, Mr. Gavin Hunter, you’re going to have to find someone else.”

“Alright, Zoe,” Gemma said, reaching across the table to tug at Zoe’s hem, signaling for her to sit down.  Zoe pouted, doing as she was told while the rest of the group suppressed their laughter.  Gemma turned to hand Sam a cocktail napkin with the other.

“Thanks,” he said, blotting at the alcohol splotch on his knee, not that he was too bothered.  Sam was arguably underdressed compared to everyone else in the white linen shirt and charcoal slacks he had borrowed from Damian.  They were luckily about the same size, or Sam would have shown up in his usual t-shirt and jeans.

“It’s just that this is my
wedding
,” Zoe continued.  “I want it to be elegant and glamorous and representative of who I am.”

“
This,
” Gavin said, throwing his arms to the side.  “This is representative of who you are.”

“I mean, representative of who my family thinks I am,” Zoe argued.  “Which is still me, just not the same me that maybe some of you know.  So, something like the place we looked at earlier today – what was it called again…?”

Damian sat up straight, clearing his throat loud enough to stop Zoe in her tracks.  Sam looked up, raising his eyebrows with curiosity.

“What?” Zoe asked, looking slightly irritated.

“Yeah, what?” Sam asked as well, though he suspected he knew the answer.

“Sandrine!” Zoe exclaimed.  “That’s what it was called.”

Damian turned to Sam, looking apologetic.

“Sorry, she doesn’t know,” he explained.

“Doesn’t know what?” Gavin asked.

“It’s okay,” Sam shook his head.  “That was just… Sandrine was my restaurant.  Before I was let go.”

“Oh, shit.  I’m sorry,” Zoe said.  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I can cross that off my list of potential venues.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Sam laughed.  Uncomfortable with the sudden sympathetic silence, he grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose and began topping off everyone’s drinks.  “You know, I don’t think any of us are drunk enough.  Would you agree?”

“I would definitely agree,” came a voice from behind him.  Before Sam could turn in his seat, he felt long fingernails raking through his hair.  Startled, he turned slowly to see Poppy and Sage Somerville, sidling up to his group’s booth seat.

“So you’re the great Sam Laurent,” Poppy said, sliding her slender body into the cushioned space between Damian and Sam.  “Daddy tells me you’re like a genius or something.”  Sam watched as her lacquered lips leaned closer with every word she spoke.  She giggled, unprompted, causing Sam to crack a knowing smirk.  Poppy had amateur moves in the flirt department, but he suspected she never really needed the know-how.  She was classically beautiful with her straight, button nose and plush smile – just like her Sage and their mother.  Sam wondered how Rye had come from the same DNA, with her frizzy, sort-of-blonde hair and permanent scowl.

“Nice to meet you girls,” Sam smiled as Sage perched herself at the edge of the group’s table.  He watched as Damian and the rest of the group exchanged quick looks before turning their attention back to him in amusement.  Poppy and Sage carried on as if no one else were there.

“I’m surprised that someone with your
amazing
credentials would even bother with that dinky little diner of ours,” Sage purred.  “So thank you for helping our daddy out.”  Sam wrinkled his nose, creeped out by whatever game the two sisters thought they were pulling.  Despite being undeniably attractive, there was something about them that really turned him off.

“You girls should come take a look at the place when it’s done,” he shrugged.

“We’d love that,” Poppy said.  “We’ve been looking for an excuse to go back up there for years.”

“Uh…” Sam furrowed his brows.  “How about visiting your sister?”

“Who?” Sage laughed, turning to Poppy.  “We’re both here.”

“Your
younger
sister,” Sam said.  “Rye?”

“Oh, yeah!” the two girls dissolved into hysterics.  “We keep forgetting about her.”

“You almost sound proud of that,” Sam frowned.

“No, silly,” Poppy giggled.  “But you know.  You’ve been working with her.  You know how she is.”

“She’s not exactly what we’d call
fun
,” Sage shrugged, smoothing down her dress as she focused her gaze elsewhere.  “Poppy, I think I see Nicolo Piersanti.  We should go say hi.”  With that, the two girls slinked off as quickly as they came, leaving behind Sam and his stunned friends.

“Oh my
God,
” Gavin exclaimed with a toothy smile.  “That was kind of gross in an exciting way.”

“I feel like I need to shower just
watching
that shit,” Zoe laughed.  “Sam, how did you not totally lose it.”

“He’s used to that sort of thing,” Damian said.

“Normally, yes,” Sam replied.  “But that for some reason felt sleazier than normal.”

“I’m going to go ahead and use that as an excuse to leave,” Gemma said, downing the rest of her cocktail.  “I’ve shown my face so we can go.  What do you guys say? Midnight barbecue at our place? Sam’s cooking.”

~

Rye sat inside the towncar, staring as the crowd around the red carpet outside of Greyta began to dwindle.  She wondered if she’d even be able to get in, realizing her Somerville name may not be enough for an event of this magnitude.  She probably couldn’t even convince the bouncers that she was related to her siblings, she had always somehow managed to look nothing like the rest of them.

“We can’t stay parked here, I’m going to get a ticket,” her driver said, staring at her impatiently through the rearview mirror.

“Just give me a minute,” she said, feeling her breath quicken with every angry huff he made.  Rye took out a mirror, inspecting the makeup she had attempted on her own after watching a tutorial on YouTube.  She realized she didn’t even know enough about makeup to judge whether or not she looked good.  She had lined her eyes with some amber eye shadow, remembering her mother once saying that it brought out the gold in their light-brown eyes.  It was the only thing she really had in common with her siblings – the unusual gilt that wove through their irises.  But unlike her sisters, mother, Porter, and Angus, she and Basil had inherited their father’s hair color – a shade that didn’t quite fit into any one category.

She had chosen a subtle rose tint for her lips, enough to give her otherwise pale complexion a little life, and a matching dusting of rouge on her cheeks.  She figured she should try her best not to overdo it, conscious of being noticed as she always was.

Which was why she had come to regret her outfit of choice.

In her mother’s old closet, she had found a couple dresses that she didn’t care to take with her.  One of them was a loose-fit, silk maxi that she had worn to hide her pregnancy with Angus from the rest of the kids.  It was a pale green in color with a high-collar halter neck and a matte-weave throughout.  The skirt flared in a dramatic fashion, giving ample room for a woman to hide her pregnancy and a girl to hide her insecurities.  What she hadn’t counted on was all the excess fabric that would occur when someone who
wasn’t
pregnant would put it on.  And though the bodice was sort of fitted, the silk that hung from her hips was so ample that it felt as if she had put on an evening gown, not the casually elegant dress that she had remembered her mother wearing not the ones the party guests today had donned.

“Alright, lady,” the driver spoke up again.  “You have from now until that cop down the block gets to my window to either go back to Dutchess Plains with me or get the hell out.”

“Al
right
,” Rye said, ruffled by his attitude.  “Calm down.”

“So?” the driver challenged, turning to face her.  “Are you getting out, or what?”

“Fine,” Rye rolled her eyes, swinging the door open and stumbling out.  She slammed the door and stepped up on the curb, accidentally snagging the silk on the nude stilettos she took from Sage’s closet.  She looked down to see a small tear at the hem of the dress.

Despite it being the tiniest of rips, the sight of it suddenly made her heart beat harder.

“Wait!” she said, turning back to the towncar, only to see it disappear around a corner.  Rye frowned.  The cabbie had definitely pressured her to make the wrong decision.  She knew now that she definitely didn’t want to be there.  It wasn’t the type of party where you showed up alone.

“What do we have here?” a familiar voice drawled from behind her.  Rye turned, finding herself a mere three feet away from Olive Somerville.

“Mom,” she gasped, freezing in place like a kid who had gotten into her mother’s makeup… which she technically had.

“What is all this?” Olive laughed, reaching forward to touch her daughter’s hair before turning her face to inspect her makeup.  “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Rye said, smiling.  She hadn’t seen her mother in ages and didn’t realize how much she missed her until now.

“I didn’t know
you
were going to be here,” Olive replied.  “I haven’t seen you in forever, sweetheart.  Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay, you’ve been busy,” Rye shrugged, reaching forward to hug her mother.  Olive gave her a quick pat on the back before pulling away to keep inspecting her daughter’s face.  Rye took the opportunity to do the same thing with Olive.  Her mother hadn’t aged a day since they last saw each other, which was now almost two years ago.  They had met for a quick brunch in the city for Rye’s twenty-first birthday, which was made even quicker when Olive had to run off for some meeting.  She was wearing a white, strapless mini-dress that was maybe just a little young for her age, though Rye reasoned that her mother wore it better than she could ever wear it herself.  On top of it were layers upon layers of precious-stone-studded accessories.

“I was going to ask you where you learned how to shop,” Olive continued.  “But I see you just raided our closets.”

“I know,” Rye lowered her gaze.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t have a lot of time.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Olive laughed.  “There’s a reason we left those things behind.”

“Well,” Rye started.  “Do I look… okay?”

“You look…” Olive squinted.  “Okay.”

“Oh.”  Rye pursed her lips.

“Well, don’t do that,” Olive snorted.  “You’re just going to make that lipstick job sloppier.”

“Hey, um – since you’re here,” Rye began.  “Do you mind if I maybe go in with you? I came alone, so I don’t have anyone to…”

Suddenly, the cameras started flashing in their direction.  Rye covered her face, shielding her eyes from the blinding light and her image from the paparazzi.  It was then that she noticed the man stepping out of the towncar behind her mother.  It was Richie Westin, better known as one-fifth of the boy band, Gods of Mischief.  Though Rye didn’t know very much about current pop culture, she did know that Richie had helped Angus get his start in deejaying and that they were roughly the same age, which meant Richie was still a teenager.  To her horror, he stepped up beside Olive and held out the crook of his arm for her to take.  Olive blew Rye a quick kiss before snuggling up to Richie and pushing past the paparazzi towards Greyta’s entrance.

As she stood outside, dumbfounded by what she just seen and unsure of what to do next, Rye resolved to take a moment to breathe.  With every blink of her eye, she could still see spots, which was better than re-seeing the image of her mother and her barely legal boyfriend.  She found herself bringing her phone to her ear then, having quietly dialed the number for car service without even realizing it.

“Macintosh Limos,” the voice greeted on the other end of the line.

“Hi, yes,” Rye answered.  “I was wondering if your services go up past Hudson Valley?”

The dispatcher put her on hold, looking up the pickup and drop off addresses as she stood there, feeling kind of dazed.  If she needed further proof that she didn’t belong in her family’s world, she had just gotten a couple items to add to her list.  A stray paparazzo had wandered over to her, tilting his head and inspecting her face as if she was some art piece up for auction.

“Hey, you Rye Somerville?” he asked, snapping a photo before she could answer.