Jet Set (7 page)

T
hat Saturday after hoofing it on the court in scrambles matches, I almost fainted. We had been paired with various teammates round-robin style, and while I was very focused on my games, I could sense there was a buzz in the air. Victoria was absent, and Angelina was her usual sweet but reserved self, but a few of the girls on the doubles teams—who were practicing with us today—were whispering, and I picked up some chatter about Victoria. Maybe she was really sick? I tuned it out and headed back to the dorms.

 

“I have your cut. The Victoria von Hapsburg piece was a smash.”

“Ah! You scared me, Sofia!” I said, closing my door quickly behind me. I was still dripping sweat from the morning's tennis practice—always way intense on Saturdays—and had rushed back to my room to shower rather than have to deal with perfect Angelina in the locker room. I had not expected to find Sofia sitting in the corner chair next to my window.

“Sorry, love, just thought you might want the money for the article, and I didn't want to leave it out.”

So that's what they must have been murmuring about…Victoria's bracelet in the magazine.

“Um, yeah, about that,” I said, opening my closet and putting my racket in the corner. “I don't want to take any money for this.”

“Oh bollocks!” she said, flipping her hair confidently. “You have to. They were absolutely thrilled with the pics, and it's only fair that you get something for helping me. Four hundred thousand people read
Gab!
and, thanks to you, on page sixteen they will learn all about the lovely charm bracelet worn by a certain snot-nosed brat. It's all about young aristocracy these days. Readers can't get enough!”

I didn't like that Sofia was making it seem like I had cohatched the plan. I mean, I had helped her, but I never wanted to be accused of being such a deep conspirator. “Um, you know that it wasn't because of me. I just helped you out.”

“Right, whateva,” said Sofia dismissively.

“So, do you know what you're going to wear tonight?” I asked Sofia, changing the topic.

“Dad sent over a dress. Versace. He told his publisher that I absolutely had to play the part at the formals, so I get any designer gown I please.”

“Wow, that's cool.”

“Yeah, I can get you one if you want.”

“No, that's okay.…”

Sofia stood up and walked over to me. She looked carefully in my eyes. “Don't freak out, Luce.” She put her hands on my shoulders to comfort me. “It was just a silly prank.”

“Right. Just a silly prank.”

“Come on, why don't you take a bath and I'll wait for you in my room.”

After a long, hot soak in the tub, and extra time lounging in my complimentary fluffy Frette bathrobe, I finally got dressed. As I gazed in my closet, I realized that Victoria was right—I had nothing to wear to Jazzmatazz. There was one dress that might pass muster—a dark blue, sleeveless minidress that had been my sister's—but I wasn't sure. I decided to bring it over to Sofia's room to see what she thought.

When I walked out in the hall holding the dress I heard a squeal of laughter and spun around.

“Nice dress!” said Iman with a wicked smirk.

“Oh my God, is
that
what you're wearing?” Antigone said with
a laugh, literally covering her mouth in astonishment.

“What's wrong with it?” I asked. It was plain, but who cares?

“You really want to know?” asked Iman.

“In a word?” said Antigone, sizing it up and down. “Garish.”

“How can it be garish? It's just a simple blue dress,” I said, blood rushing to my head.

“Are you returning it to Sofia?” asked Iman snidely. “Or is it yours?”

“It's mine.”

“You should stick to tennis whites, Sharapova,” said Tiggy in the bitchiest tone ever. “Fashion is not your strong suit.”

They exchanged amused looks before taking off down the hall. When they rounded the corner I heard them burst out laughing.

My blood was boiling when I entered Sofia's room. I held up the dress.

“Is this horrible? Some kind of fashion acne?” I demanded.

Sofia looked at it carefully. “It's not wonderful, but it's perfectly harmless.”

“Iman and Antigone just made it seem like it was as bad as Britney Spears shaving her head.”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “Those girls are just god-awful and nasty. Do you see why I have no qualms about playing pranks on them? They're spoiled little brats.”

I was furious. “You're right. They are brats.”

Sofia looked at me. “So let's get our revenge.”

I
wore the blue dress anyway. And guess what? It was so dark at the ball, you could barely see anyone's outfit. Jazzmatazz took place in the Crystal Cabaret Room, a leveled mini auditorium complete with supper-club tables, candlelit chandeliers, and even a cocktail waitress holding flapper-style 1920s cigarette boxes filled with (sugar-free) candy. The theme had been planned by the Decorating Committee, which essentially was made up of the senior and junior It girls plus, of course, the Diamonds. But their definition of decorating didn't mean staple guns and tinsel like in
some American high school. It meant they
brought in
their own decorators, event specialists who were used to throwing royal weddings and charity balls throughout the Continent. For this particular escapade, Iman had wrangled the decorator from
Queer Eye
, who had just finished her older sister's deb ball in Paris.

“Isn't it simply divine?” Sofia gushed as we entered the transformed space. The tablecloths were made of raw quilted silk, and each student had his or her name and table number done in perfect calligraphy at the escort table by the grand flower-covered arched entryway. Sofia and I selected our cards.

“Seven,” I read, praying hers was the same.

“Bollocks! I'm twenty-one. They clearly wanted to split us up. Iman is on the Events Committee. Bitch.”

I got a shiver trying to imagine an interminable dinner with people I didn't even know. But then again, the bright side—maybe this would be a chance to meet someone new.

“Hey, lucky seven,” I heard, turning to find Oliver standing over me. “We're at the same table.” He smiled.

“Oh great!” I said, looking at Sofia, who shot me a wink. I wasn't quite sure what that signal meant.

“Can I get you ladies a drink?” Oliver offered.

“I'm okay, thanks.…” I demurred.

“You sure? They have killer mocktails, like Jimmy's Swisstini,” he said.

“Jimmy is the eighty-seven-year-old bartender here,” Sofia explained. “He's an institution.”

“Wow, Oliver. I must say, that's what American guys would refer to as a chick drink,” I teased.

“Well, we Brits have enough confidence in our virility to partake of so-called feminine beverages.” He smiled. I blushed.

A tux-clad gentleman holding a baby handheld glockenspiel sounded the keys to announce dinner.

“I'm off to get a glass, then. See you in a moment at dinner.” Oliver walked off, and I started to melt like the nearby giant ice sculpture of a trumpet.

“Oh my god. You were totally flirting with him!” Sofia accused.

“No I wasn't,” I protested.
Was I?

“Yes. You. Were,” she said with her bony finger jutting at me. “Lucy. How are we supposed to get dirt on the royals if you're so up the royals' bums? You have to see it as predator and prey. Oliver wouldn't give a rat's arse about you if he knew your background, so don't melt at the sight of his batting lashes. Understood?”

“I guess.”

“I'm only telling it like it is. Only true friends have candor like that.”

“Okay.”

“See you in the dessert lounge afterward.” And with that Sofia turned and strode away to her table.

Alone in the midst of the crowd, I looked around, trying to find my social bearings. There were so many kids, luckily many of them now familiar from my seeing them in the dining room or
teeing off at the golf range, which was by the courts.

“Hi, Lucy!” It was Rioko. “Thank you for your email—no worries!”

“Oh, I felt terrible about not getting it in time. I haven't been logging on at all.”

“What table are you? I'm seven,” she said, and suddenly in my head I heard happy violin music, knowing that I wouldn't be alone.

“Me too!” I exclaimed, genuinely happy. Rioko semed very friendly, and she had such a warm and sweet face that I always smiled when I saw her. We walked over to our table together.

Lucky table seven was covered in flowers—an explosion of three dozen peonies, with one more on each place setting, tied with a brown velvet ribbon. Crystal goblets glistened from the flickering light of fifty votives. Rioko was two down from me, and because it was boy-girl-boy-girl, I looked to see who was next to me. One place card bore Maxwell's name. Gag. On the other side there was a name I didn't know. Above my place card was a hand-calligraphied menu card with gilded edges listing the courses they would serve during the meal. I had never seen anything like it.

“Hi there, I'm Antony,” said a chipper blond guy who approached the table, pulling out the chair beside me. “I see I'm your dinner partner.”

“I'm Lucy.”

“The tennis star, I know! Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

We shook hands just as Oliver came to the table holding two Swisstinis, one for him and the other for Angelina, who was, of course, seated beside him.

“Let's get this paaartay started!”
screamed Maxwell, who sidled up to the table like he owned it. “Hey, ladies, lookin' sharp!” he said after scanning everyone. Which meant scanning their chests. Gross.

“Lucy, Lucy, Luuucy,” Maxwell said, looking me over. I suddenly felt like a rotisserie chicken turning under the gaze of his lecherous eyes on my boobs. “Smart dress.”

I wanted to boil myself, I felt so grody, but instead I managed somehow to mutter a weak “Thanks.”

Antony leaned in to whisper, “Lucy, don't mind that jerk, he's a bit of a clod.” I smiled. Here I didn't even know this guy and he read my mind.

“I noticed. So where are you from, Antony?”

“I was born in London, but we moved around quite a bit. My parents are now in Australia, and I spent five years in your country, actually.”

“Really? That's great, where?”

“Boston. My mum taught at Harvard, and then we left when I was in eighth grade and I came here. I'm a junior. I really miss the States. Such a freedom to it, less snobbish,” he whispered, leaning in.

It was true. Sure, there were snobs everywhere, but the whole emphasis on who came from where was clearly a European thing.
No one spoke much of lineage when we visited the U.S. I think my cousins in Chicago didn't even know what the word meant.

Antony and I chatted for what seemed like an hour, eating our blini and frisée salads with truffle oil. Until Maxwell had to go and shake things up.

“Antony, why're you hogging Lucy? It's my turn, bloke.”

And with that Maxwell put his arm around me. I shuddered and for some reason looked across the table at Oliver, who had been talking closely with Angelina. She looked absolutely breathtaking in a beaded floor-length silver gown. He glanced up at the same time and our eyes met. He was larger than life with his confident warmth and the way he always made me feel like I was the only person in the room. But, like they say about Bill Clinton, he probably had that sincere connection with everyone he focused his laser beam on. Angelina was certainly blessed to be the girl he chose to spend time with.

“Okay, Lucy. Tell me your deepest, darkest fantasies,” Maxwell said, staring into my eyes. I leaned away from him. He leaned closer and stroked my shoulder with his grimy paw. I pulled back, visibly repulsed.

“Buddy, lay off,” commanded Oliver from across the table. Drama!

“C'mon, man, you get all the tail you want. I'm just making a move here on Van Pelt's own little Sharapova!”

“She's not
tail
,” corrected Antony, standing up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, chill out, man. Who're you, friggin' Lancelot now? Sheesh,” Maxwell taunted.

Rather than engage, Antony came to the rescue and reached out his hand. “Lucy, would you care to dance?”

Gladly. I practically leaped up and followed Antony to the dance floor, where he expertly put his arm around me. I tried to match his perfect moves as Mr. Marsalis's music filled the air.

“Listen, Lucy, those guys—the whole lot of them—are spoiled rich arses. You just have to tune them out.” I looked over his shoulder at our table—Rioko now on the receiving end of Maxwell's advances—and saw Oliver watching us.

“Oliver seems nice though,” I offered.

“Don't be deceived. We were friends last year, but he's not so great. Better to just steer clear.”

His take on Oliver didn't seem possible. He was so charming! Maybe that was it—could I have been sucked in by his warm smiles and royal polish? Hmm. I guess it was possible that even my animal instincts were flawed sometimes, especially in this lion's den.

“And that bloke Maxwell, what a rude, raving idiot,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, he's the worst,” I agreed. “What's his problem, anyway?”

“He's the black sheep of his family dynasty. His great-great-grandfather invented the first golf carts and they produce almost every one in the world. It's a monopoly, really. Anyway, his brothers are all quite successful, nice chaps, but Max has a bunch of problems, including that he slept with a married woman whose husband is the head of the bank his family works with. Miles Bristol.”

“No way! How old is she?”

“Like, thirty-two. Talk about
Desperate Housewives
. Anyway, it was all shushed up. But as you just had the unfortunate experience of seeing for yourself, that guy can only think with his down-yonders.”

Fascinating.