I’ve always relished these frenzied hours before a party kickoff, from the hustle and bustle of the staff downstairs, to the cool elegance of my mom applying her makeup in a cloud of perfume up in the master suite. The anticipation gets me every time, the promise of some sort of magic to come, as our house is transformed into a wonderland. And tonight, my excitement is more warranted than ever: Chace and his parents are coming to the party. The thought of my boyfriend here in the house where I grew up, looking movie-star gorgeous in his formal wear and dancing with me in front of all of DC’s high society, gives me a palpable thrill.
Our longtime housekeeper, Gabby, whose gray-streaked hair is beginning to show her age, approaches with a fruit and cheese platter.
“Here you go, girls.”
“Oh, thank God. I’m starving,” Stephanie says dramatically, breaking off a hunk of Gouda with her fingers. I can’t help making a face at Nicole. I love Steph and all, but the girl needs to learn how to use a cheese knife.
Nicole isn’t looking at me, though. She’s staring at Gabby, color filling her cheeks.
“What’s up?” I elbow her in the ribs.
“Did I ever tell you my mom worked as a housekeeper when I was little?” she blurts out, after Gabby steps away.
Stephanie’s eyebrows shoot up. I clear my throat.
“Uh, no. That must have been…” My voice trails off. What’s the appropriate response, anyway? God, that must have been weird! doesn’t exactly have the best ring to it.
Nicole shrugs.
“It’s not that big of a deal, I guess. She ended up going back to school and now she works in an office, but even if she hadn’t moved on, I know there’s obviously nothing wrong with being part of a household staff. It’s just…well, I never really pictured her in that role until now. The family she worked for had teenagers, too, and it just seems strange, the idea of her waiting on kids our age when she had a little girl at home.” She glances at me. “Does your housekeeper have children?”
I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged this many words about Gabby in my life. What is Nicole getting at? Stephanie lets out a yawn, clearly bored with this conversation.
“Um, I don’t know,” I answer. “Maybe?”
A crash sounds from downstairs. The three of us turn to look over the railing, where the head florist is cursing out one of her underlings, who frantically sweeps up shards of a dropped vase.
Nicole looks away, cringing. I suddenly see this whole scene from her point of view, and the glamour of it all is replaced with…something else. But why should I feel guilty or have to apologize for the pomp and luxury that surrounds me? My parents earned this. Maybe Nicole sees her mom’s face when she looks at Gabby or the staff downstairs, but that’s her problem. Not mine. Right?
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the girls, getting up from the leather seat. I need to restore my balance, and watching my mom beautify herself, in her cloud of Chanel No. 5 should do just the trick.
My parents’ master bedroom is practically the same size as the Oyster Bay football field. As a little girl I managed to get lost in it once or twice, but now there’s something comforting about the airy space, with its sleek slate-and-cream furniture, weird modern art, and Baccarat crystal adorning every shelf.
I find my mom in the adjoining marble-floored bathroom, perched on a director’s chair and jabbing at her phone while Pierre, the family hairdresser, blows out her silky dark strands. She looks up at the sound of my approach and smiles into the mirror.
“There you are, mija. I thought maybe you’d grown out of watching the regimen this year.”
“Nope.” I pause to air-kiss Pierre before settling into the love seat next to Mom’s vanity table. “What dress did you choose?”
“The red McQueen,” she replies. “Which calls for a red lip, of course. Why don’t you wear your Christmas present, the silver Balmain? So our colors will complement each other.”
“Perfect,” I agree, tucking my legs underneath me while watching Pierre’s wizardry with the blow dryer.
Sometimes it feels like these are the only times I can relax around my mother. Up here, surrounded by hair tools and makeup and fabric swatches, I can pretend that we’re much more similar. I can forget, even if only for a few moments, how terrifyingly serious and whip-smart she is—and how neither of those traits passed down to me.
“Pierre, do you have time to do the girls’ hair when you’re done with mine?” she asks now.
“Really?” I sit up straighter. Mom has only lent her hairdresser to me once, on the occasion of my sweet sixteen.
“Certainly I have time, madame,” Pierre replies.
“That Nicole could certainly use your help,” Mom says with a chuckle, patting Pierre’s hand.
“But please don’t do anything too drastic,” I tell him. “I don’t want to be the clichéd popular girl who gives her nerdy friend a makeover. We’ve only seen that in a million movies.”
He nods in agreement.
“As you wish. No cliché hair here.”
A few minutes later Pierre finishes my mom’s style, giving her glossy waves that fall over her shoulder, a flawless contrast to her usual tight updos at the Capitol.
“It looks perfect, Pierre,” she says, giving the mirror a satisfied smile. “Why don’t you start with Stephanie or Nicole downstairs so I can have a few minutes with Lana.”
Once we’re alone, she looks at me expectantly.
“So? How are things going with Chace? You haven’t told me much.”