“I’m actually going to do a call now, so I’ll see you back in New York, man,” Jaime said, addressing this to Nick. To Camilla, he said, “Thank you so much for the lovely weekend. It was amazing.” Camilla leaned in to kiss him twice on the cheek, and Evelyn stepped forward to do the same, but he had stepped back and was flipping through a catalogue on the table. “I’ll see you all back in New York, sooner rather than later, I hope,” he said.
This phrase reverberated through Evelyn’s head as she brought her duffel downstairs, and by the time the Sachem boat pulled in, she wondered if it was meant especially for her. On the car ride, she analyzed it further. He knew her number. Didn’t he know her number? She had a sudden still image of her sitting on the floor with her phone and asking for Jaime’s number, and yes, there, at 3:02 A.M., was an outgoing text from her to a 917 number: “hi its ev come back soon.” So she had texted him in the middle of the night. Way to play hard-to-get, but he would call soon. He had to. She left the phone in her lap, in case it buzzed, and watched the long stretches of green between Northway exits roll past out the car window.
Jamie would probably call tonight, so as not to look too eager. Or even tomorrow, once he was home and settled in. Definitely by tomorrow. She fiddled with the seat-belt buckle and tried to make time pass, but her head was throbbing and the dark self-loathing she had been trying to keep at bay since she woke up was hovering just around the edges of her consciousness. She checked the dashboard clock. It was twelve-fifteen. Her brain was a hungover muddle, first castigating her about Scot, switching to anxiety that that racket bracelet was still in her bag and she was now a thief in addition to a cheater and a liar, then zooming to worry that she was done and her family was done and it was all over. She was playing her last few cards. This had to have worked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Le Bal Fran?ais
It had been six days since her return from Sachem. Six days without hearing from Jaime. Six days of the rent people and the Barneys people and her parents and—no, no, no, no, no, she wasn’t going to think about that today. Not today. Today was the day of the Bal. Nothing would ruin this day.
A voice mail from her father sat in her in-box, but Evelyn let it sit. Nothing could ruin this day. Preston hadn’t called. He had been supposed to attend the Bal after-party but Evelyn knew that was out now. Evelyn had begun composing e-mail after e-mail to him, but beyond the “I,” she didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to address the version of herself she’d been on that deck. She wouldn’t think about that today. Camilla, too, had been slow to get back to her, and that could be—no, no, no, not today. Not today.
At five o’clock on the dot, Evelyn walked into the Plaza with her Naeem Khan garment bag in hand. (She’d called Naeem Khan PR and promised coverage of the ball, of herself, and of whom she was wearing in both the Times and Vanity Fair, which, she reasoned, wasn’t entirely not going to happen.) The crying she’d allowed herself after she got home from Sachem, the sodden tissues and the tear-stained shirt and red eyelids, were Visined and washed and eye-creamed out. Evelyn was in control now.
She checked the suite upstairs, where the debs were chattering about a guy from Princeton who had friend-requested three of them on Facebook. She almost banged heads with Jennifer as she rounded a corner, and the look in the girl’s eye—pure loathing—was one that made Evelyn dig her fingernails into her palms. But this night was not about Jennifer, she reminded herself. She had not worked so hard to get here so some eighteen-year-old could make her feel bad. She headed to the ballroom to help with preparations.
Margaret/Push and Souse were already there, making tiny adjustments to items on the silent-auction table and giving sharp instructions to the servers about when to clear the salad course. Evelyn was starting to approach them when her phone rang. Seeing it was her father’s cell phone, she silenced it and sent the call to voice mail.
“Mrs. Faber,” Evelyn said, smiling.
“Evelyn, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“You look lovely. What a pretty dress.”
“Thank you. As do you. Wythe looks terrific, of course. I just saw her upstairs.”
“She does? Good, good; getting her to wear a dress, you can imagine the challenge there. Let’s hope she leaves her sneakers behind for the presentation.”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
Souse came hurrying over from the other side of the room. “Evelyn! Hello, dear. Where’s Camilla? Isn’t she supposed to be with you?”
“I haven’t heard from her, to be honest. I thought she was planning on coming at five, but I’m not sure where she is.”
Souse threw up her hands. “Children,” she said to Margaret. “This is her sister’s ball and she’s on the committee. You would think she could bother to show up when she said she would.”
“At any rate, Phoebe looks lovely, and I was just telling Mrs. Faber that everything is running smoothly,” Evelyn said.
“Well, at least you’re on top of things, Evelyn, dear,” Souse said. “What a terrific dress. Calvin?”