Rich Girls Read online

  Only it never happened. And it didn’t look like it ever would.

  Maybe he’s embarrassed, Adrienne told herself for the ten-thousandth time. Maybe he wants to talk to me but is afraid I don’t want to talk to him. That’s why he’s avoiding me.

  Or maybe not. Maybe he’s fallen for Cameron for real. And it’s truly over for us.

  And to make it even more horrible, because it wasn’t horrible enough, she had to see him three days a week in French class.

  Adrienne sighed and leaned against the wall just outside the classroom door.

  “What’s up, Adrienne?” Tamara Tucker asked as she arrived at the doorway with Lily Singh. Tamara and Lily had been Adrienne’s closest friends since she’d started at Van Rensselaer.

  “What else?” Adrienne replied. “Brian.”

  Tamara leaned against the wall next to Adrienne. “I hear you, girl.”

  Adrienne swallowed hard. “I really miss him.”

  “After what he did to you?” Tamara asked. She stepped away from the wall so that she could face Adrienne directly. “You can’t be serious. Why would you, after he played you like that with Cameron?”

  “Listen, Tamara,” Adrienne said, “Brian and I were together two years before Cameron showed up, and never once was he ever anything but a great boyfriend. He never treated me this way before. People don’t change like that overnight.”

  “But he did you so wrong,” Tamara protested.

  “The only thing wrong with him is Cameron,” Adrienne said firmly. “She’s the one twisting him up.”

  “But—” Tamara said.

  “No more, Tamara,” Adrienne interrupted. “I’m sure of this. Be my friend and don’t push, all right?”

  “Well,” Lily said with a sideways glance at Tamara, “I think Adrienne is right. Brian loved Adrienne. That doesn’t just vanish. This Cameron Warner thing is only a momentary brain freeze.”

  The three girls walked into French class. Adrienne was at her desk pulling her books out of her shoulder bag when Brian walked through the door, his dark, wavy hair setting off his chiseled features.

  There are still a few minutes before class starts, Adrienne thought. Someone has to be the grown-up here, and I guess it has to be me.

  Adrienne took a deep breath. She stood and tossed her head back, and then realized the move would be more effective if she had Cameron’s long locks. Adrienne’s medium-length red hair looked great on her, but was definitely lacking in the dramatic gesture department.

  Adrienne walked up to Brian and waited for him to turn and look at her. He didn’t.

  “Hey,” she said. She flinched at the sound of her own voice. She had spoken a little louder than she had planned.

  Brian turned slowly. “Hey,” he mumbled, fidgeting with his belt buckle—something he always did when he was nervous.

  “Brian,” Adrienne said more quietly; she didn’t want the whole room to hear their conversation. “We really need to talk. Can we get together after school?”

  He looks trapped, Adrienne observed. This was a bad idea. But for some reason, she couldn’t stop. “Just a few minutes before I head over to work,” she pressed. As soon as she said the words, she wished she could take them back—mentioning work would only remind him of Cameron.

  “Uh, sorry, Adrienne,” he said, “but, I, uh…well, I have plans after school. Another time, okay?”

  Adrienne blinked. She just knew those after-school plans were with Cameron. I will not cry, she ordered herself. I will not cry.

  She flashed him a mega-watt smile. “Sure, fine, whenever.” She spun on her Tod’s—more castoffs of Cameron’s—and hurried back to her seat, humiliation and misery making her knees weak.

  Adrienne glanced at Tamara. She could see the I told you so in Tamara’s dark brown eyes.

  Adrienne sat up straight and stared at the blackboard. Brian is going to be mine again, she told herself. And I will make Cameron pay. Big.

  As Adrienne headed to 841 Fifth Avenue after school, the weak December sun was already heading for the horizon. This weather matches how I feel, Adrienne thought. Bleak. Cold. Gray.

  She wondered if maybe she should just quit her stupid job—avoid having to see Cameron, and not have to keep flashing onto Cam and Brian together. She shook her head. No. That would mean Cameron won—by making Adrienne run like a puppy with her tail between her legs. Besides, if Adrienne was at 841, she could keep an eye on Cameron—and Brian. Then, maybe she could find a way to win Brian back.

  Besides, Adrienne thought as she strode up to the entrance, the money is just too good to give up.

  “Hello, Miss Adrienne!” Reilly the doorman greeted her as he held open the ornate gilded bronze doors. “Go on up.”

  The doormen at 841 used to intimidate her, but now that she was a regular in the building, they treated her with friendly respect. She was one of them: a normal person working hard to make sure that the crazy rich people who lived at 841 were all happy, all the time.

  The service elevator—nannies weren’t allowed to take the regular elevators at 841 unless they were with the kids they took care of—opened onto the back entrance of the apartment. Adrienne let herself into the kitchen.

  The kitchen that was packed.

  Waiters and waitresses were lined up at the doors, and six chefs competed with one another for space to prepare tiny sandwiches, miniature ice cakes, and assemble beautiful canapés and individual hors d’oeuvres. Tiny vegetables were being washed and arranged on platters, and everywhere there was the soft clattering of china and silver.

  “Adrienne!” Tania, the Warners’ housekeeper, greeted her. The short Russian woman was nearly as wide as she was tall. “Is like the chaotic! Today they compete, and all is in craziness.” She tucked a stray gray hair back into her bun.

  “For what?” Adrienne asked.

  “They all wish for being chosen to be the maker of all the party servings,” Tania explained. “The party where Miss Cameron is to fall down in front of peoples.”

  It took Adrienne a moment to interpret Tania’s fractured English. Then she nodded. She must mean these people are vying for the catering job for the debutante ball. Ugh. More hoopla about Cameron. Just what I don’t need. Adrienne hung up her coat and stashed her bags in a back hall closet.

  “Where’s Emma?” Adrienne asked Tania as she shut the closet door.

  “She with little Heather in hall. You lucky you is come. Soon, they push each other out from windows. Or Mrs. Warner, she do it herself. You go now.” Tania grinned, revealing her gold tooth, and nudged Adrienne toward the door.

  Adrienne wound her way through the crowds of catering people and walked through the dining room into the hall. As she passed the living room, she could see Mrs. Warner, surrounded like a queen by her court.

  Christine Olivia Warner—called the COW by Adrienne and Liz—was one of New York’s most prominent socialites. She and her husband were on the board of every museum and charity, and they were out every night, leaving their children virtually parentless. That didn’t matter so much for Mr. Warner’s two older kids from his first two marriages: Graydon Warner, the oldest (who was in college at Columbia), or for Cameron (who pretty much made her own rules), but Mr. and Mrs. Warner’s only child together was a different story.

  Emma Warner was an eight-year-old genius, and it had taken Adrienne a while to win her over. Not that Adrienne was really sure that she had won Emma over, but the two had developed a wary respect for each other.

  “Hi, Emma,” Adrienne said, walking up to the little girl, who was sitting on a leather ottoman by the window and reading a copy of the French newspaper Le Monde.

  “What’s up?” Adrienne asked, pointing at the paper.

  “Riots in Marrakech, the French prime minister is going on a visit to Italy, and BNP-Paribas stock is up,” Emma replied, her eyes glued to the paper.

  “Big day.” Adrienne knew the best way to deal with Emma was to ignore the fact that no normal eight-year-old
kid should be reading a French daily newspaper. Unless, of course, the kid was French.

  “Where’s Heather?” Adrienne asked, looking around.

  “In my room with your friend Liz.”

  “Why are they in your room when you’re out here?”

  Emma picked up a small pair of silver scissors and began clipping out stories of current events for her gifted teens French class. Emma shrugged. “Heather seems to have had a panic attack or claustrophobia…or maybe both.”

  “I better go check on her,” Adrienne said. She knew from Liz that Heather was an overly sensitive kid.

  “Okay,” Emma said. “Oh, and Adrienne?”

  “Yes?” Adrienne asked.

  “She might be upset because she somehow got locked in the back broom closet for half an hour before Liz came.”

  “And how did that happen, Emma?” Adrienne asked, hands on her hips.

  Emma blinked. “We were playing hide-and-seek. Who knew she would find such a good place?”

  “I wonder,” Adrienne said, her eyes narrowing. “Such a good hiding place, back in the servants’ section, where no one can hear her scream, and in the only closet with a lock on the outside.”

  “I know,” Emma said. “Isn’t it just terrible?”

  “I’ll deal with you later, Emma,” Adrienne said, and noted with satisfaction that fear now replaced smugness on the petite girl’s face.

  Adrienne walked back toward Emma’s bedroom and ran into Liz and Heather in the hall.

  Heather Markham-Collins was small and fine-boned, with eyes that always appeared as if she had just stopped crying. And since she actually had just stopped crying, they were redder than usual, giving her the air of a wounded rabbit.

  “I want to go home,” Heather moaned. “If I stay here any longer, I’ll have an acute panic attack. My anxiety levels are very high.”

  “Heather, don’t you want to stay and find out what’s happening?” Liz asked. She turned to Adrienne. “I mean, what is going on here? It looks like they’re planning a wedding.”

  “Worse,” Emma replied, appearing in the doorway. “They’re planning Cameron’s coming-out party.”

  “Cameron is a lesbian?” Heather asked, confused.

  Adrienne laughed. I wish, she thought. At least then she’d leave Brian alone.

  Emma rolled her eyes again. “No, no, no. Her coming out into society. Every girl makes her curtsy to high society when she is seventeen. To introduce her to her social peers.”

  Liz leaned in close to Adrienne. “Why would Cameron need to be introduced?” she whispered. “She’s already flashed her tits at everyone in New York.” The girls dissolved into giggles.

  Emma glared at Adrienne. “What are you two laughing at?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” Adrienne replied. “Nothing you need to know about, anyway.”

  “I’m sick of this stupid party,” Emma complained. “It’s all anyone talks about.”

  “I guess it’s important to your mom,” Adrienne said.

  Emma rolled her eyes and glanced at her watch. “It’s four o’clock. Time to watch Oprah.”

  Emma was addicted to Oprah, and Adrienne knew from experience that the little girl would make life miserable for anyone who interfered with her Oprah time. Emma stared pointedly at Heather. “Unless you want to play another round of hide-and-seek?”

  Heather’s eyes began to well up.

  “Okay,” Liz announced. “Time to go. Talk to you later, Adrienne.” Liz led Heather out of the apartment, narrowly avoiding a collision with the oncoming caterers.

  “Adriana?” Mrs. Warner called from the living room. “Is that you?”

  Adrienne shook her head. Mrs. Warner never got her name right. She plastered a smile on her face. “Hi, there, Mrs. Warner,” she said, stepping into the living room while Emma dashed off to watch the forbidden television with Tania in the kitchen.

  There were six or seven women in slim, well-tailored suits, all coiffed, painted, and powdered, and each trying to get Mrs. Warner’s attention.

  “Dear, I’d like you to meet, well, meet everybody. As you can see, I’m in quite a swivet; Gladys quit this morning, and I’m in such a bind, I simply can’t handle everything. Would you be a darling and grab a pen and help me for a bit? I just need you to take some notes for me.”

  It was Gloria, Mrs. Warner’s personal assistant, who had quit. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get sucked into doing two jobs instead of one, Adrienne thought.

  “All right, Mrs. Warner,” she said reluctantly, picking up a pad of paper and a pen. “But I have to get Emma to her piano lesson in an hour.”

  “Oh, you are a love,” Mrs. Warner cooed. “Isn’t she a love?” she asked no one in particular.

  “Back to work, dah-ling,” a tall woman drawled. “The-ah is so much to do.”

  It quickly became clear that all the women worked for the one with the Grand Ole Opry accent. She was so unlike anyone Adrienne had ever met, she couldn’t help staring. She was very tall, taller than Mrs. Warner, and her hair was carefully styled into a large blond mass of loose curls held together by a great deal of hairspray. Adrienne had no idea how old she was; her face was completely hidden under a mask of perfectly applied makeup.

  Mrs. Warner turned back to Adrienne. “Oh, Adrienne, I’m so silly. I’ve completely forgotten to introduce you. Adrienne is my daughter Emma’s”—Mrs. Warner seemed to be searching for the right word—“companion and higher education adviser.”

  I guess “nanny” doesn’t sound prestigious enough, Adrienne thought. But at least she got my name right.

  “Isn’t she just precious?” the woman drawled to her chorus of assistants.

  The women all nodded, clucked and cooed, making Adrienne think of a flock of expensively dressed chickens.

  The blond woman in charge handed Adrienne an engraved card. “Ahm SO pleased to meet you.”

  Adrienne read the card:

  Debi LaDeux

  “Queen of the Texas Dip”

  Pageant Trainer, Debutante Adviser,

  Deportment, Beauty, and Image Consultant

  Miss United States of America, 19…

  The lower right corner of the card was torn off, so Adrienne couldn’t quite make out the year Debi had been Queen.

  “The Texas Dip?” Adrienne said. “What’s that?”

  “Do it for her, Debi,” encouraged one of the women.

  “Yes, yes,” the women chimed together, clapping their hands lightly. “Do it!”

  Debi looked at Mrs. Warner. “Ah couldn’t,” she said. “Unless Christine really wants to see it again…”

  “Oh, please, Debi!” Mrs. Warner said. “Now watch carefully, Adrienne, because Debi is just a genius at this. In Texas, when a girl is presented, they do this extraordinary curtsy. It is like ballet. The girls from Texas are famous for it, and I want to make sure that Cameron can do it properly. Maintaining her Texas heritage is so important to me—and to her father, of course.”

  Cameron’s father had made his second fortune—he lost the first one—in the oil fields of Texas. He had moved to New York ten years ago, with little Cameron in tow. Cameron’s mom was a famous supermodel, who had jetted off to Fiji, never to return. As far as Adrienne knew, Cameron got the odd postcard every few years from her mom, but had no real contact or connection with her. Less than a year after arriving in Manhattan, Mr. Warner had married Christine, and she had promptly taken over the “mothering” responsibilities.

  “You are just a doll for feelin’ that way,” Debi said. “But the dip is more than ballet; it’s gymnastics, ballet, and yoga—all in one perfect gesture. It says more about a young woman than just that she is well-bred and refined; it also says that she is strong, athletic, graceful, and well-proportioned….”

  Is she talking about a girl or a horse? Adrienne wondered.

  “Here goes!” Debi announced. She stood in the center of the room and smiled at hundreds of invisible people. She raised one a
rm so that it was parallel to the floor.

  “You have to imagine that an escort is beside her wearing white tie and tails,” whispered Mrs. Warner.

  “The traditional dip incorporates an escort and her father, of course,” Debi explained. “How-evah, for the Manhattun Cotillion, only the escort is allowed. It creates a challenge.”

  Slowly, Debi began to sink.

  Adrienne watched, amazed. It looked as if Debi were standing in an elevator that was going down impossibly slowly. Her smile didn’t move. Her eyelashes didn’t flutter. Debi just kept sinking. As the knee of Debi’s right leg skimmed the floor, Adrienne thought the curtsy was over. But it wasn’t.

  Slowly, Debi began to slide backward, putting her weight on her back leg as she extended her left front leg forward in a straight line, toe pointed.

  “Of course in a long gown, you can’t see any of the legwork,” Mrs. Warner whispered.

  Now that she was on the floor, right leg underneath her, Debi began to bow, her head falling slowly toward her right knee. Then, just as her lips were about to touch her own knee, Debi turned her head to the right and smiled brightly, raising her head and looking around the room.

  Everyone burst into applause.

  “Why does she do that with her head?” Adrienne asked, clapping along with everyone else.

  “To keep lipstick from getting on the skirt,” Mrs. Warner explained.

  “What the hell is going on here?” a man’s voice suddenly boomed throughout the room.

  Mr. Warner and his son, Graydon, strode into the living room carrying squash racquets and Coach gym bags.

  “Oh, darling,” Mrs. Warner said. “This is Debi LaDeux, Cameron’s pageant trainer.”

  “What the hell is a pageant trainer?” Mr. Warner asked, handing his racquet and bag to one of the maids. Graydon did the same.

  “Well, Mr. Warner,” Debi said, still posed on the floor, “if you and your son would be absolute dears and help me up, I’ll explain.”

  Mr. Warner and Graydon lifted Debi up from the floor, and she turned to them with a dazzling smile.

  “Mr. Warner, I am a former Miss United States, and I have worked with the daughters of most of the prominent families of Texas in order to perfect the Texas Dip before their presentations. I train the girls in carriage and deportment. I teach them how to conduct themselves at debutante teas, I teach them to project an image of easy grace and refinement, I teach them the ability to hold up under pressure.”