“Oh, good Lord,” Preston said to Evelyn.
The caller, whom Evelyn finally diagnosed as Phil Giamatti, a kid from rural New Hampshire who’d overdosed on caffeine their lower year, trundled over. To the untrained eye, Phil appeared to be dressed even more snappily than Preston. His checked purple shirt, Evelyn guessed, was Thomas Pink. His pants were Nantucket Reds. He wore sockless Gucci loafers. Evelyn remembered when he’d arrived at school in his oversize chambray button-downs and jeans. He smacked of price tags these days, and he was drenched in cologne, some brand that no doubt came in a black-leather-encased bottle.
“How are you guys?” He grabbed Evelyn with meaty hands to lean in and smash his wet lips on her cheek. “Nice to be up here out of Manhattan, huh?”
“It’s always nice to be at Sheffield,” Evelyn said flatly. She hadn’t liked Phil in high school, where he was always trying to copy Charlotte’s tests, and she liked him even less with money.
“I know, right? Good to leave work, too. Banking is crazy, man.”
“So I hear,” Evelyn said.
“It’s like, when you’re doing deals the way I am, it’s just nonstop. It’s like up at five A.M. and in the office till one A.M. But it’s work hard, play hard, right? Models and bottles?”
“‘Models and bottles’ is not exactly my scene,” Preston said haughtily.
“Models not your style, Hacking?”
Evelyn felt heat in her ears; she hoped Phil was not going where he seemed to be going. “Pres’s style—” she began.
But Phil continued. “You need male models and bottles? That better?”
Evelyn didn’t have to look at Preston to know that her friend would be scarlet. “Preston is a male model, Phil,” she said icily, which wasn’t the greatest of retorts, but she couldn’t think of anything else. “Good luck with your banking.”
“Hey, I was just joking,” Phil said as they walked away. “Hey, hey, Hacking? Hey, Beegs?”
Evelyn strode back to the card table, where she rearranged some of the cocktail knives to give Preston time to compose himself. Finally, he swallowed so hard she could hear it. “I don’t know what he was talking about,” Preston said.
“Me, either,” Evelyn said evenly. She refilled his drink, armed with a topic change. “So, would you rather?”
“Ooh, what?” said Preston, seizing on their old game.
“Would you rather have to spend every dinner party for the rest of your life seated next to Phil Giamatti or have an aboveground pool in your front yard?”
“So elitist, Evelyn, my dear. What’s the website you’re working for now? Not Our Class, Dear?”
“Very funny. You know I’m going to sign you up.”
“Nay! I eschew technology.”
“You’re going to have to embrace it. You have lineage and a respectable old name and, presumably, alcoholic uncles leaving you grand fortunes. You’re exactly who they want. Don’t worry. I’ll help you make a charming profile.”
“The answer, by the way, is aboveground pool. Dinner parties are too precious to spend with the likes of Phil.”
“Agree,” Evelyn said.
“What are we talking about?” Charlotte had skipped up and thrown her thin arms around both of them.
“Phil Giamatti,” Evelyn said.
“You’re not recruiting him for PLU, are you?” Charlotte said.
“Dahling.” Evelyn held her nose and looked down at Charlotte. “He is not PLU caliber.”
“Dahling, I wouldn’t have ventured. Certainly not PLU,” Charlotte said in her British voice. “I think Ev gets bounty-hunting points the more ancient the family money she signs up.”
“Well, if People Like Us gets Evelyn back to Sheffield, I’ll accept it,” Preston said. “It’s good to all be here together.”
“I mean, of course we couldn’t get our act together to hang out in New York,” Charlotte said. “Isn’t that New York, though?”