Rich Girls Page 4

  Adrienne didn’t know how to respond. How can he be so cruel? For the first time, she wasn’t so sure about getting Brian back.

  “I wonder where the teacher is…” Brian said, glancing at his watch. Its diamond face glittered and sparkled in the light.

  Adrienne knew there was no way Brian could afford a watch by Jacob the Jeweler. He was always scrambling for cash. He lived with his parents and three brothers up in Washington Heights, and money was seriously tight.

  Cameron sure is doling out the gifts. Adrienne bit her lip. Brian had never been impressed by this kind of thing before. But now, Cameron’s goodies seemed to entice him.

  All of her goodies.

  “So, where did you get the watch?” Adrienne asked, pretending she didn’t know.

  “Cam gave it to me,” Brian said, admiring the shiny watch. “She got it for free. It’s killer, right?”

  Adrienne put on the disinterested expression she had learned from Cameron. “Watch out for girls who give you expensive gifts in the beginning,” she warned, quoting Liz’s friend Jane, hoping she sounded cool and wordly. “They’ll make you pay for them in the end.”

  Brian looked confused, then shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Adrienne walked back to her seat between Tamara and Lily. Obviously they had watched the whole scene.

  “I’m sorry, Adrienne,” Tamara said quietly. “Trust me. He’ll come crawling back to you when that rich girl tosses him aside for next season’s man.”

  Lily frowned. “It stinks, Adrienne,” she agreed. “You know, I really thought you could do it. But he’s seriously gone on Cameron.”

  Tamara studied Brian with dark, narrowed eyes. “It’s hard to compete with those gifts. That diamond watch looks like it’s going to dislocate his shoulder.”

  Adrienne fought back waves of disappointment. She took in a deep breath. “I do have a way to compete with Cameron,” she announced.

  “How?” Lily asked.

  “Mrs. Warner offered to pay me to get Brian away from Cameron,” Adrienne said, settling back into her chair. “She’ll help me in any way she can.”

  “What?” Tamara and Lily chimed together. Adrienne could see they were both floored.

  “That’s right,” Adrienne said, ignoring their shocked expressions and pulling her books out of her book bag. “If I steal Brian away from Cameron before her debutante ball, I collect a bonus from the very grateful Mr. and Mrs. Warner. They will even give me spending money to put the plan into action.”

  “Damn,” Tamara said quietly, shaking her head. “Those people are twisted, you know?”

  “I know,” Adrienne said. “Believe me, I know.”

  Adrienne arrived at the Warners’ that afternoon to discover Cameron walking back and forth across the marble foyer with a heavy book balanced on her head. Debi, the Texan cotillion consultant, observed Cameron’s every move, while one of her helmet-haired assistants took notes.

  “Shoulders back, Cameron,” Debi ordered. “Smile! Judges hate a grumpy girl!”

  “I’m not a contestant, and there are no judges!” Cameron retorted. The book slipped from her head to the floor with a crash.

  An assistant scurried to retrieve the book. She held it out to Cameron, who glared at her and crossed her arms, refusing to take it. The assistant turned to Debi, looking for backup.

  Debi crossed her arms too, and raised a plucked eyebrow at Cameron. Neither blond blinked.

  Adrienne grinned. Interesting. Immovable object meeting an irresistible force. I wonder who’s going to win this battle of wills.

  “Cameron, New York will be your judge,” Debi said, smoothing her perfectly coiffed hair. “You are a beautiful girl. You have every advantage. But if you want to be Deb of the Year, you have much to learn.”

  Cameron rolled her eyes.

  “That Princess Mimi has something you don’t have. Something that is required of any debutante who hopes to truly make her mark in society.”

  A flicker of interest—or was it worry?—crossed Cameron’s face. She uncrossed her arms and placed a hand on a jutting hip. “And that is…?”

  Debi smiled.

  Score one for the Texas Dipper, Adrienne thought. She just won this round.

  “That is an easy, graceful confidence that comes with having a secure social position.”

  Cameron opened her mouth as if she was about to protest, but Debi kept speaking. “Models don’t have it. And, my de-ah, you walk like a fashion model. And that simply won’t do. You must walk like a queen!”

  Adrienne watched Cameron take the book from Debi’s assistant and place it back on her head. She tottered a bit on her mile-high Jimmy Choos.

  “No, no, no,” Debi clucked. Cameron cringed.

  Amazing, Adrienne thought. Someone is actually being paid to criticize Cameron. There’s a job I’d like to have!

  “Think position. Think status,” Debi ordered.

  “You’re saying you want me to walk with confidence?” Cameron said, trying to figure out what Debi was asking of her. She was obviously stunned that there was someone in the world who didn’t think she was perfect.

  “No, honey,” Debi corrected. “Right now, you walk like you have confidence in your daddy’s bank account. You need to walk as if you have confidence in your family heritage. More like Princess Mimi.”

  Cameron flinched at being unfavorably compared with her friend. But she sucked in her breath and tried again. This time, Adrienne could see Cameron add a bit of Mimi’s regal posture to her usual loping stride.

  “That’s it!” Debi said. “That’s the you we’re looking for! Now do it again!”

  I guess I can’t just stand here being entertained by Debi humiliating Cameron, Adrienne realized. She went looking for Emma. The first place she checked was the library—a favorite room for the precocious little girl—and spotted the tip of a blond head poking over the top of the sofa. She heard a tiny, muffled sob.

  “What’s wrong, Emma?” Adrienne asked, concerned. She walked around the sofa. “Did Oprah retire?”

  Adrienne was shocked to see Mrs. Warner rising from the sofa. “No,” Mrs. Warner said, her voice shaky. “I saw Oprah in Montecito three weeks ago. Her contract runs until 2012.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed Belgian linen handkerchief from La Perla.

  “Mrs. Warner, are you okay?” Adrienne asked.

  “Not really,” Mrs. Warner admitted, twisting the hankie. “I’m sorry you had to see me have the come-aparts.” She sighed and drifted back down on the sofa again, evidently too weak to stand.

  Adrienne wasn’t sure what to do. The woman had always seemed so in charge. Insane, but in charge. What could be bothering her?

  “Adrienne, I have been a chairwoman for the Manhattan Cotillion for…years, but suddenly there are rumors that I am to be replaced!”

  “But why?” Adrienne asked, perplexed. “You’re, like, the most important woman in the city.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Warner sniffed daintily. “I certainly think so. But it seems that people are really opposed to Cameron as a debutante.” Mrs. Warner heaved a huge sigh. “If Cameron fails at this, it will be a disgrace to the family.”

  “Isn’t there some way to get them to come around?” Adrienne asked. “Remind them, I don’t know, of how they all like you, want to be around you?”

  A spark of hope flickered in Mrs. Warner’s eyes. “Yes…,” she said slowly, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time,” Adrienne said.

  She started to turn to go back to her search for Emma, but Mrs. Warner reached up and grabbed Adrienne’s hand.

  “You must help me,” Mrs. Warner begged. “Help us!”

  “But how?” Adrienne asked. “What can I do?”

  Mrs. Warner stood and paced, her Manolo Blahniks clicking on the hardwood floor. “We’ll host a tea for all the debutantes here. Make it the event before the event.”

  “That sounds like fun,
” Adrienne said.

  “Fun?” Mrs. Warner sounded shocked. “My dear, this isn’t fun—this is strategy. Now, with Gloria gone, there’s no time to hire anyone else. So I will be relying on you. But your MOST important job is to make sure that Cameron does NOT take that Brian to the ball.”

  “I’m working on it, Mrs. Warner.” Adrienne didn’t add that it didn’t look so promising.

  “Thank God,” Mrs. Warner said, giving Adrienne as affectionate a glance as she was able, given the fact that her forehead was frozen by Botox. “Now, about getting organized for the tea. Quick. Come with me to my office.”

  Mrs. Warner hurried Adrienne into her private office, crossed to the Louis XVI desk, and rolled open the top. She pulled out one of her gray, monogrammed notepads and a Cartier pen. “Let’s see. The ball is given for charity. The proceeds go to the Foundation for Children Who Need.”

  “The children who need what?” Adrienne asked.

  “Oh Lord, Adriana, don’t tire me. They need everything, one supposes.” Mrs. Warner had returned to her old self. “We’ll invite someone from the charity to the tea as well. Create goodwill and all that.” She smiled at Adrienne with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “And everyone will be afraid they’ll look un-charitable if they don’t come to the tea, so we are assured of attendance.”

  Flipping pages in her leather-bound calendar she murmured softly to herself. “No, that’s the Museum of Modern Art dinner. No, that’s the nineteenth-century drawings auction. Yes!” She turned to face Adrienne. “Two weeks from today!”

  “Isn’t that kind of soon?” Adrienne asked. “It’s pretty short notice to invite such important people.”

  Mrs. Warner swiveled around and tapped her pen on her calendar. “Good point.” She spun around again. “I know! We’ll just tell everyone that the stationer screwed up.”

  Adrienne stared at her. “But won’t that ruin the stationer’s reputation?”

  Mrs. Warner stared back. Then, finally, she shook her head. “You’re right. We don’t want to alienate Mrs. Fine. We’ll need her for Emma’s next birthday.” Her eyes narrowed as she thought hard. “So what can we do? What can we do?”

  She stood and paced.

  “Yes!” Mrs. Warner said. “When you hand deliver the invitations, you’ll explain that the original courier lost the invitations and that these are a rush second stamping!”

  Mrs. Warner scribbled furiously on the notepad while Adrienne wondered how many invitations she was supposed to be delivering, and how she was supposed to add that chore to her usual responsibilities—including little things like homework, studying, and her life?

  “Here’s a list of things to do,” Mrs. Warner ordered.

  “What about Emma?” Adrienne asked.

  “What about her?” Mrs. Warner shrugged. “Take her with you. Children should get out now and then, shouldn’t they?”

  Adrienne stared down at the list. “Isn’t this the kind of stuff a professional party planner should do?”

  “Adriana,” Mrs. Warner said patiently, “we are all part of this family. And this tea is very important to this family.”

  This tea that you dreamed up this minute, Adrienne thought as she left the office.

  “Emma!” Adrienne called down the hall.

  “Yes?” the little girl said, sticking her head out the kitchen door.

  “Grab your coat!” Adrienne said. “We’re going shopping!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  there is no Mrs. Fine

  The elevator door opened onto a tiny vestibule. Adrienne hesitated, looking around for something resembling a stationery store.

  “Come on,” Emma urged. “We want to get this done before I qualify for Social Security, right?”

  Adrienne followed Emma through the glass French doors that opened into a waiting room. A huge, marble-topped giltwood table stood under an ornate mirror and nearby, a young man in a cashmere sweater sat at a long, granite-topped reception desk.

  Adrienne swallowed and looked down at her list.

  Go to Mrs. George M. Fine. Order the invitations as I’ve indicated below. Remember this is a RUSH order. Do NOT allow them to say no.—COW

  The young man glanced up. “Hello, Emma,” he said, smiling and coming out from behind the desk to greet her.

  “Hi, Nick,” Emma replied.

  He looked at Adrienne. “And you are…?”

  “Oh! I’m—” Adrienne began.

  “She’s my nanny, Adrienne,” Emma said.

  “Hello, Adrienne,” Nick said, shaking her hand. It was oddly cold and clammy. “Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Coke,” Emma said.

  “Uh, me too,” Adrienne added. Nick nodded and walked out of the room. “You know him?” she asked Emma.

  “Sure,” Emma said, shrugging. “Mrs. Fine does all my birthday invitations.”

  “Will we meet Mrs. Fine?” Adrienne asked.

  “There is no Mrs. Fine,” Emma explained wearily. “There’s Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Grey.”

  Nick came back in and pointed to a glass door.

  “Mrs. Clark is ready for you in the Red Room, girls. Your sodas are in there.”

  “Thanks,” said Emma, charging ahead of Adrienne as if she owned the place.

  Adrienne followed her into a room with deep red walls. Two desks were lit softly by shaded lamps that cast pools of light across the rich mahogany. Against the far wall, enormous, red-glazed cases held hundreds of invitations—some for weddings, state events, and other important occasions. Adrienne’s eyes passed over paper bearing some very famous names: presidents, movie stars, and several of Emma’s classmates.

  “Hello, Emma!” said a cheerful woman with gray hair and small horn-rimmed glasses. She was probably in her early sixties but had an ageless quality that only money could buy. Her demure navy suit was so simple, Adrienne knew it had to have cost major bucks. “You can’t already be planning for nine?”

  “No,” Emma said. “We’re here for invitations to a stupid tea for Cameron.”

  “Your mother didn’t want to be here for that?” Mrs. Clark looked perplexed.

  “She’s busy,” Emma declared, sitting down in the mahogany chair. “She sent my nanny, Adrienne.”

  Adrienne sat down next to Emma and looked at the pleasant woman across the table, unsure of what she was supposed to do next.

  “Well,” Mrs. Clark said, “are we looking for something traditional?”

  Adrienne swallowed. From the way the woman nodded and emphasized the word “traditional,” Adrienne figured they were.

  “Let’s take a look at some samples, shall we?” Mrs. Clark suggested.

  So much paper! Adrienne had no idea there were so many kinds and weights. Vellum, plate-finish, 2-ply, 3-ply, 4-ply. Paper heavy enough to make furniture out of! At Staples, all Adrienne had to choose between was recycled and regular.

  Finally, Mrs. Clark’s well-manicured hands flew over the calculator. “Let’s see. With the rush delivery charge that comes to…four.”

  Adrienne blinked. “Four dollars an invitation?” Wow, that’s pricy, she thought. They should consider e-vites. They’d save a bundle!

  “No.” Mrs. Clark smiled. “Four thousand dollars.”

  Adrienne was aghast. “For fifty invitations?”

  “No, for a hundred. That’s our minimum. Mrs. Warner keeps the rest, I guess.”

  “She throws them out,” Emma declared, leaping off her chair. “I’ve seen her do it. Can we go now?”

  “I guess Emma has decided we’re finished,” Adrienne said with a laugh.

  “She has been awfully patient with all these arrangements,” Mrs. Clark said with a smile.

  “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Emma fumed.

  “You’re right,” Adrienne said. “We’re being rude.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said.

  Adrienne looked at Mrs. Clark. “Are we done?”

  “Yes, we are. And yo
u’ll have the invitations the day after tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” Adrienne said.

  “Have you been with the Warners long?” she asked as she walked Adrienne to the door.

  “A few months,” Adrienne replied.

  Mrs. Clark gave her an appraising look. “You’ve lasted longer than most,” she said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  the perfect pink

  The invitations for the tea arrived two days later, as promised. Mrs. Warner stood at the window, examining them in the natural light, as Adrienne waited anxiously for the verdict.

  To Adrienne’s eye, they were perfect. The crisp black lettering stood out from the creamy vanilla paper, and the Warner monogram glowed softly at the top in a burnished gold. Understated and elegant—nothing like Cameron.

  “They’re beautiful,” Mrs. Warner said. She gave Adrienne an appraising look. “I never would have thought that you would have such taste. Who knew?”

  Is that supposed to be a compliment? Adrienne wondered.

  “Adriana, because you did such a good job with these, I’m going to give you a real opportunity. I need you to make sure that everyone is doing their very best for us. Like a party planner.”

  “Don’t you have a party planner?” Adrienne asked. She had seen a petite woman with a clipboard and trendy glasses following Mrs. Warner around for the last few days.

  “We did, but I fired her this morning. She really wasn’t able to get things done the way you and I can. We’re such a great team, and this will be easy. Of course, I’ll pay you an additional fee. And…,” she added pointedly, “the more time you spend here, the better an eye you will be able to keep on Byron.”

  Adrienne thought for a moment. Mrs. Warner was right. If she was involved in the party, she would know where Cameron was every minute of the day and night, which meant she’d also know Brian’s whereabouts. She also knew Mrs. Warner didn’t want to pay a party planner, when she could get Adrienne to do all the work. Mrs. Warner dropped enough money every week on highlights, chemical peels, massages, and manicures to feed a small third-world country, but when it came right down to it, the woman was cheap. I guess that’s how the rich stay rich, Adrienne thought.