When Evelyn had seen the e-mail with the subject line “FW: Bal tea and planning meeting,” she had made herself wait to open it, just to savor its deliciousness. She half expected Camilla to forget about her offer, or to reinstate Brooke on the committee, but there in bright black and white was the information: “hi Ev see below excited xx.” To her delight, she saw it was at Margaret Faber’s apartment, the woman who had been so friendly at Sachem, and then she saw Margaret Faber lived at one of the best addresses in all of New York.
She wasn’t sure what her mother’s reaction to the debutante-committee invitation would be, but her mother had been thrilled. Warm, even. “I’m so happy for you, dear,” Barbara had said. “It’s supposed to be a really wonderful party. I’m so glad you’re finally doing all this. I’ve been telling you for years how interesting these people are.” Barbara even called back later, to ask about party details, and sounded genuinely happy. For once, Evelyn had made her mother that happy.
Evelyn felt success at the Bal was vital. If she was a smash here, that could lead to not only more credibility at PLU but more invitations on her own merits. She could be a guest at the Junior League and the Infirmary in the winter, and maybe even join the committees once her children were old enough.
As she arrived at Margaret Faber’s apartment on Park, a man in a Hermès tie hurried around Evelyn, and the doormen rumbled, “Good day, Mr. Shuder.” Rob Shuder, Hollywood producer, Evelyn thought: new purchaser, a half floor, and a New York Post–chronicled fight with neighbors over what constituted public space when his interior decorator added brass studs to the shared hallway.
Evelyn followed him. “Hello,” she said. “Evelyn Beegan, for Margaret Faber.”
The doorman—or should she call him a concierge?—on the right smiled. “Yes, Miss Beegan, Mrs. Faber is expecting you,” he said, without consulting a list. “Please, follow me.” His footsteps barely made a sound as he walked across the marble floor, while hers, embarrassingly, squeaked. He called the elevator, and yet another attendant was inside there. “Miss Beegan for Mrs. Faber,” he told the attendant. The attendant put his key into the panel and turned it, pressed 12, and with his arms straight at his side and his eyes high, rode up with Evelyn.
“Thank you, Miss Beegan,” the attendant said as the elevator swallowed him again, the doors whooshing shut. Evelyn took an uncertain step forward toward a room with rows of chairs and looked—for what? a maid? a butler?—when she saw Margaret Faber, in a waist-nipping blue suit (bouclé like hers, Evelyn noted with relief) sprint into the hallway.
“The cheeses are practically frozen!” Margaret said.
Evelyn pulled herself tall; she hoped she had not been mistaken for a caterer. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she said. She looked to her left, down the hallway, where she saw the hostesses, their husbands, the debs-to-be, and the girls’ parents mingling in a large living room with built-in bookshelves. The windows overlooked Park, with heavy-looking rose and taupe brocade curtains framing them. Something about the couch looked familiar; Evelyn wondered if she had seen it in Architectural Digest before. In an adjoining room, Evelyn could see a camera’s flash.
“I’m Camilla Rutherford’s friend, Evelyn,” she said. The woman’s pleasantly expectant smile didn’t change. “We met at Sachem? I’m helping out with the debs?”
“Ah, yes. Of course. I didn’t realize you were one of Camilla’s friends when we met at Sachem. Souse and I have been friends for years, and I’ve known Camilla since she was a tiny thing. Souse! Souse!” Her voice was booming and loud, and she had no compunction about hollering through the museumlike foyer.
A blond woman came running from the room of minglers—Souse Rutherford, bristling with even more energy than her friend, with a golden tan and beautifully toned arms that were bared in a wool shift dress, also bouclé. “The macarons are coming!” Souse shouted, like an epicurean Paul Revere.
“Camilla’s friend is here! Evelyn!” shouted back Margaret.
“Evelyn? Evelyn!” Souse leaned in to inspect her, and Evelyn smelled a mix of perfumed face powder and Chanel No. 5. “Well! I’ve heard so much about you, and Camilla has been keeping you from me all this time! Look at her. Just adorable. Look at that jacket. That’s fabulous. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“That is fabulous. It is vintage?” Margaret said.
“Yes, I got it from my mother,” Evelyn said. She had gotten it from a consignment store, but the two women’s smiles widened, as she hoped they would.
“I wish my daughter would wear my old things.” Margaret frowned. “I have a few old Balmains that are just turning into colonies of moths.”
“Camilla is, predictably, late, but you ought to come in and meet everyone. The tea’s being served in the living room, and the girls are getting their photographs taken in the library, but we have to have a business meeting first with the committee members, just in the anteroom,” Souse said.