That year, HK’s annual gala was being held in the banquet hall of a beaux arts building downtown. As in the past, the organization had hired a hyperorganized, headset-wearing event planner named Barbara to mastermind the festivities, so Karen was free to come as just one of the guests. Wearing her only decent black dress—the same knee-length shift she wore to all work-related parties—she arrived at seven sharp and made her way to the bar. At seven fifteen, there was no one there, which seemed slightly ominous. Then, suddenly, at seven thirty, a mass of people showed up, and a mob scene ensued.
Guests crowded into an anteroom, where silent auction items had been laid out on long rental tables covered with white cloths. As Karen sipped from a glass of pinot grigio, she did a cursory review of the offerings. There were cashmere baby hats, private tours of art museums, front-row tickets to Broadway shows, interior-decorating consultations, seven-night luxury beachfront resort accommodations in the Turks and Caicos Islands, spa services involving heated rocks, and giant baskets of beauty products wrapped in crinkly cellophane and tied with giant bows. The finest South American botanical ingredients, read one description, combine with cutting-edge science to boost the skin’s inner strength and revitalize its outer beauty. This his-and-hers gift basket even comes with a handy red carrying case—value $450.
Gazing out at the crowd, Karen saw a mass of wraithlike women bedecked in sparkly jewelry interspersed with pasty fat men with bald pates who understood that thinness was ultimately aspirational and that they required no such leverage. First among them was Lew Cantor, a private-equity honcho who sat on the board of directors of Hungry Kids. Lew had given a hundred grand last year. Karen had inherited him from the previous development director, Deb Lennon, which made it all the more essential that Karen go over and greet him. “Lew! It’s wonderful to see you!” she said.
“Hello there,” he said. “It’s Carol. Right?”
“Karen, but don’t worry about it! You’re looking very festive tonight.”
“Eh? You like the bow tie?”
“I do like bow ties. How is your lovely wife?”
“She’s vanished to Aspen. I haven’t seen her in weeks!” He chuckled.
“Oh, well, when you next see her, give her my regards. You know, this organization couldn’t do its work without you two…”
Karen was still pissed at Matt for blowing off the event, but mostly in principle. In truth, his absence gave her the freedom to conduct the necessary business of glad-handing the guests without feeling self-conscious or judged. It also gave her the freedom to socialize as she pleased. Although Karen had no close friends in the office, she got along with most everyone there, from Letitia Gutierrez, the sultry benefits associate, to Cary Ann Kreamer, the Southern sorority-sister-ish nutrition coordinator. But she was most fond of the outreach director, Troy Gafferty, whom she wished she saw more of; unfortunately for Karen, he was usually busy “reaching out” in a remote part of the city.
The estranged son of Jehovah’s Witnesses, Troy, who was now in his forties, had lost his lover to AIDS fifteen years before. Miraculously, he himself hadn’t contracted the virus. But for unclear reasons, he hadn’t had a real relationship since. At present, he lived alone in a bare-bones studio over a deli and liked to joke that the families he assisted sometimes had nicer apartments than he did. That evening, Karen and Troy made the rounds together, shaking donors’ hands (Karen would introduce him as “our heroic man in the field, Troy”) and whispering about who had and hadn’t shown up.
To Karen’s relief, one of the Krugs, of the Krug real estate empire, was at that very moment kicking back gin and tonics beneath a gilt-framed portrait of a long-forgotten elder statesman. But to her disappointment, a certain first-generation Googler was so far a no-show. There was still no sign of Clay Phipps either. Karen found herself checking every few minutes. But since he’d not just RSVP’d but purchased an entire table, Karen was confident that he’d eventually arrive. And then he did.
At the first glimpse of him—he was wearing a slightly rumpled white button-down and a pin-striped navy-blue suit—Karen felt as if her stomach were a pincushion pierced with hundreds of tiny holes. He was accompanied by a coterie of slightly younger, square-jawed Asian and Caucasian men (maybe his employees at Buzzard?), as well as a sleek, tawny-skinned woman of unclear age and ethnicity to whom he was walking close enough to suggest a spousal relationship. The woman was wearing a red dress with a scooped-out neck and a simple gold choker. Karen knew she shouldn’t be surprised to find that Clay was married to a woman of color. Why shouldn’t he have been? But she was surprised—surprised and impressed and somehow even more nervous. Countering fear with alacrity and leaving Troy in conversation with Cary Ann about next week’s menu, Karen bounded over to where Clay and his wife stood. “Hello there,” she chirped, addressing them both.
“Well, hello there, Karen Kipple,” Clay replied in his endlessly cheeky way.
“So glad you could come,” said Karen, leaning in for an air kiss. He smelled of citrus and cedarwood.
“The pleasure is mine.”
Since no introduction was immediately forthcoming, Karen extended a hand to the woman at his side and said, “I’m Karen, the development director of Hungry Kids.”
“Hello,” she said, with the faintest of smiles.
“My bad manners—this is my wife, Verdun,” said Clay, laying his hand on her shoulder.
Was it Karen’s imagination or did she shrink slightly at the gesture? “Verdun, it’s so nice to meet you,” she said, wondering how the woman had ended up with the same name as a famous battlefield in World War I. “And what a beautiful name.”
“Thank you,” said Verdun. But again she offered no conversational opening.
“Well, I’ll let you guys mingle,” said Karen. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable in her skin, she turned away and scurried back toward Troy.
“What was that about?” he said, one eyebrow raised.
“Don’t ask,” she answered.
Troy never missed anything.
At seven forty-five, Barbara the Event Planner ushered the crowd into the main hall. Beneath a coffered ceiling inlaid with intricate mosaics were scores of circular tables laid with crisp white cloths. At eight, guests began to take their seats. Karen smiled gamely as she sat down at a table with the Jesse James Foundation people—they were Hungry Kids’ largest source of funding—even as she dreaded the thought of spending the next hour and a half making small talk with them. Jesse James modeled itself after a corporation, using metrics to analyze the efficacy of the programs it sponsored, and its employees tended to have all the spontaneity of spreadsheets. “I hope you all found something to drink!” said Karen, lifting a second glass of pinot to her lips.
“We did, thank you,” replied a man in a light blue button-down. After consulting his fitness watch, he reached for his seltzer.