They, like everyone else now settled in at their tables, are served their cocktails of choice and an array of communal appetizers that are supposed to encourage conversation and a sense of social understanding between friends and new acquaintances, but only serve to make the women sillier and the men retreating into pairs to discuss what they always discuss.
Women.
“Seems that our other lover has yet to make her grand appearance,” Henry says to Ethan. Since the rumors began to spread, the two men shared some shots during a business brunch and wished the other the best. Henry especially needed it, since their mutual contact Monica had so skillfully deduced that her own husband was a likely father. Ethan has the luxury of hiding behind time… and the vasectomy, of course. That doesn’t mean he is incapable of feeling for his good friend Henry, however. “My sister told me that she heard from our usual flight steward that she definitely flew in the day before yesterday. He may or may not have let slip that a child was traveling with her as well, although its name wasn’t registered on the itinerary.”
Ethan pours his friend more champagne, not in celebration, but for a lack of any other alcohol readily available at the table. “Best of luck. If Maury chooses you, that’s going to be a helluva conversation with the Welshes.”
“Who?”
Right. Ethan has forgotten that not everyone grows up watching trash television as a convenient babysitter when one’s father is on the phone with creditors. Yet another reason he is glad he married a woman with a similar background to his. Jasmine would get the Maury joke.
Plenty of people at the gala would actually enjoy a good Maury joke or two. Although perhaps not at a nearby table, where two more couples sit and pretend to not rubberneck in the hopes of seeing Cassandra’s grand entrance back into high society. But even for their innate social graces, Kathryn and Eva are not known for being subtle on the fly.
“You still good for that two thousand dollars that says your brother is the father?”
Eva scoffs. “Henry is so not the father, okay? If my sister-in-law was truly convinced of my brother’s paternity, she would be trembling a lot more than she is.”
“I dunno, Monica has the best poker face out of all of us.”
“Point. I still say it’s Damon Monroe. That guy will stick it in anything. Even you.”
“Thanks.” Kathryn sits back up from where they have been huddled between their seats. “Either way, can’t wait to use your money to help fund my newest charity next month.”
“You mean the one I’ve already donated ten grand to?”
“Only because your accountant highly suggested you double it before tax time ends.”
“Ladies.” Ian, who has been politely ignoring the gossip as he sits and drinks his liquor for a want of anything else to do, has had enough. “I’m shocked that you two would be uncouth enough to discuss Ms. Welsh in such a manner. You two are as bad as my…”
“Merry Christmas!” As if summoned from the depths of holiday hell, Caroline storms to the table. She has, after all, been searching for her son and his girlfriend for the better part of five minutes, and a woman of her standing does not have the patience to keep such searches up. She was about two more seconds away from hiring a private investigator on the spot before finally seeing Kathryn’s long blond hair and the tuxedo she helped her son pick out three weeks ago in New York. (Actually, that’s a lie. Because whenever Ian and Kathryn are sitting next to such original beauties like Eva and Nadia, they are the ones recognized first. But Caroline will never admit to being drawn to Nadia’s red hair and Eva’s striking makeup before seeing her own child and future daughter-in-law. She will, however, give them polite greetings, including a kiss to Eva’s cheek. Eva will wonder what she has done to deserve that red lip print on her cheek. Can’t Caroline afford better makeup?)
“Merry Christmas, Mom.”
“Yes, a very merry holiday to you, Caroline.”
She helps herself to the empty chair next to her son. Someone is bound to formally sit there for the evening, but a few couples are still late to the event. “Has anyone seen the strumpet?”
“No.” Eva jumps in before anyone else has the chance to politely sway Caroline away from such a sensitive subject. Because if any sliver of gossip is enough to take negative attention away from Eva, she will jump on it. “But Kathryn and I have a bet going over the paternity. She’s got my brother and I have Damon Monroe. You want in on this?”
“Do I? What better way to put my ex-husband’s alimony to use than to participate in such frivolity?” Caroline chooses to ignore the massive eyeroll her son offers her. “Who are the other contenders? And how much are we rolling for?”
“My sister-in-law thinks that the ex-doctor Seth Christens could be the father. Do you know him?”
“Know him, honey? The man is practically my neighbor!” There was no practically about it. Caroline lived in the same row of townhouses that Seth occupied. They often saw each other when he was out for walks and she was hopping into her car for trips to the spa and to harass her progeny. Now, as for speaking to one another? Hardly. Caroline frequented the same OB/GYN she had since she became pregnant with Ian in the ‘80s, long before Seth Christens was old enough to seriously consider following in his father’s medical footsteps. “Oh, that would be so juicy! Put me down for however much you two are bidding.”
“It’s two thousand. American dollars.”
“American or Canadian, I don’t give a shit. I just want to be right.”
“Don’t we all?” Nadia quips. She had no dog in this race, although she silently hopes that Henry Warren is not the father, simply because there is enough fucking drama in that family. Her constant run-ins with Eva and Henry’s mother are enough to convince her that bastard children would be the absolutely worst thing to ever hit the Warren clan since Evangeline first kissed another girl.
Meanwhile, it is a good thing that Ian is so used to being in estrogen-fueled situations (thanks to his handful of a mother,) because another blonde is approaching, this one in a sexy red and white cocktail dress meant to mimic a younger Mrs. Claus.
“Anyone seen my partner?” Gwen Mitchell asks, leaning one lean arm against the back of Ian’s chair. She looks right over his head and into friend Kathryn’s face. Yet her position is fortuitous, for Ian clearly has the best cologne in the room – and now Gwen is the lucky woman getting a strong whiff of it. What is it? Where can she get some for boyfriend James? “Lost him at the coat check when he saw one of your old frat buddies.” That was directed at Ian.
“He always says he sees our old frat brothers, but half the time I think he’s making it up. He was worse than me when it came to forgetting the previous day, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh huh,” Kathryn mutters next to him. She prefers to not think of what terrible shit her boyfriend got up to when he was a terrible shit. This was the man who got a DUI at 19, after all. That was probably the tip of the stupid-and-dangerous iceberg.
“Whatever. Hello, Caroline.” Gwen permanently sits her ass down in the chair next to Caroline’s. As if on cue, the man in question appears, his intentional five o’ clock shadow and shaggy hair making him look more bus boy than multimillionaire if it weren’t for the bespoke tuxedo with a diamond-studded cummerbund. The red beneath the diamonds matches Gwen’s dress. Everyone at the table would be disgusted with the matching wear, but James and Gwen are the type of couple that can get away with calling each other snookums and indulging in baby talk. Which they do. Regularly.
James Merange claps Ian on the shoulder and prompts him to join in on the old secret handshake of their rich boy’s fraternity. Apparently Gwen was on to something, because James only did that when the frat had a reunion or he found one of their old brothers out and about. There are at least five at the party. The old manor their fraternity occupied ten years ago could house up to twenty young rabble rousers with a taste for Cristal and Patek Philippe.
“Never guess who I saw over in the coat check.”
“You’re right. I can’t guess.”
“Feldman! Remember that young asshole?” This is Caroline’s cue that this is beyond her comfort zone. She stands up, offers James her seat, and goes off to find Cassandra on her own. (She won’t. She will get distracted with every single table, whether she knows the occupants or not.) “Two years below us, I believe. Of the steel Feldmans?”
“I vaguely recall.” If they were younger than him, then Ian likely does not recall his frat brothers at all. He was only friends with those in his year, like James, or the older ones. By the time he was a senior he was too busy with classwork and chasing tail to take the academic edge off to get to know his younger frat brothers well.
James sits in the now empty seat. Beside him, Gwen takes the liberty to order their drinks and make small talk with the other women at the table. They were friends, after all. “What the hell have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in several weeks.”
“First I was in Tokyo, then I had to help settle the end of the year accounts. Fun time.”