“Naeem Khan,” Evelyn said.
“Of course. Girls these days are so hip, aren’t they, Push? Well, you look lovely. I hope my prodigal daughter shows up. At this rate, she’ll be late for the presentation. I thought this kind of behavior would cease in her twenties, but apparently not.”
“It is too bad,” Evelyn said. “I wish more people my age appreciated tradition. I’ll hunt her down myself if I have to. Mrs. Faber, it was so nice to see you again, and I’m sure I’ll see you later tonight. If you don’t need my help here, I’d better get back upstairs and keep an eye on things. Phoebe and Wythe look wonderful, really. You’ll be so proud of them when you see them.”
At eight Evelyn went downstairs, where the guests were distributing double kisses, the preference of the Europeans. “I need to find the Swiss ambassador,” one muttered to another. “Isn’t he the man in the corner, with the red pocket square?”
“No, no, that’s the Swiss consul,” the other replied.
At the entrance to the ballroom, photographers were taking pictures. Margaret Faber did meant-to-look-candid poses with her husband, and Souse with Ari, and the photographers seemed to already know whom they wanted to shoot, and whom they didn’t want. Evelyn didn’t approach, in case she didn’t make the cut.
Her phone buzzed. “Walking in,” Camilla had texted, and when Evelyn looked over to the entrance, the photographers were snapping Camilla’s photo.
The orchestra was swinging away to “Dites-Moi,” and Evelyn watched Camilla finish getting her photo taken and come up to her. “Should we get our table assignment?” Camilla said.
As they walked to table ten, Camilla said, “Evelyn, I still haven’t received the check from your father.”
“Oh?” Evelyn said, opening her clutch and examining the contents.
“The invitations have gone out already,” Camilla said. “It’s in three weeks. If he has to give a gift of stock or something, that’s fine, but his secretary has been weird whenever I’ve called.”
“India,” Evelyn said. “He’s been on a long trip to India. Pharmaceutical development there.”
“Wherever he is, I need the donation. I asked him months ago so I wouldn’t need to deal with this last minute.”
“I know. I know.”
“The group reached a record level of donations this year thanks in part to him. There’s a press release going out next week.”
“I’m on it, Camilla.” Evelyn grabbed one of the gilded chairs at table ten, which was already filled with A-list guests, including Ari and Souse. “I’m on it.”
The girls slipped into their seats as the orchestra transitioned into an upbeat national anthem, and Souse held a finger up at her daughter, tsk-tsking her. Then the room darkened and a spotlight rose on a small boy, dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy, singing “La Marseillaise.” The crowd rose to their feet and sang along with him: “Aux armes, citoyens!”
Agathe, the Bal’s chairwoman, took the stage, welcoming the guests with a wave as waiters served generous chunks of lobster over green beans with a sauce béarnaise. She introduced the evening’s honoree, the head of the European studies department at Columbia. He was the third choice, Evelyn recalled from one of the planning meetings, after the first two selections had awkwardly declined, citing the professional difficulty of associating themselves with debutantes.
The lights went down as the presentation began, and the master of ceremonies, the head of fixed income at Whitcomb Partners, who was married to one of the hostesses, looked down at his first note card.
“Wythe Van Rensselaer is the director of a documentary film on street-graffiti artists in the style of the German Expressionists, a champion two-hundred-meter sprinter on varsity track, has had the pleasure of spending summers doing nonprofit work in Laos and Botswana, and likes playing poker. Her brothers John and Frederick were escorts at the ball in the past. She will be attending Yale in the fall.” There were audible “oohs” from the crowd when Yale was mentioned. Wythe, decisively, came out on the arm of her escort, curtsied, and walked excruciatingly slowly toward the edge of the dance floor as Phoebe stepped forward.
“Phoebe Rutherford speaks fluent French, Latin, ancient Greek, Serbian, and Latvian. She especially enjoys archery and needlepoint.”
Souse whipped her head to look at Camilla, who put her hand in front of her mouth.
“What?” Camilla whispered. “We thought it was funny. She could be into needlepoint and archery and all those languages.”
“This is not a joke,” Souse hissed.
“It is a joke,” Camilla said.
“Do you know how hard I’ve worked on this? How hard all these women have worked on it?”
“Oh, Mother, honestly. It’s a party.”