The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [37]
Fingering a lush Scalamandre striped silk fabric (the list price was $1,500 a yard but she knew she’d get it for half that at net), Charlotte felt her phone vibrate.
“Where are you?” asked Vicky. “I really, really need you.”
Charlotte signaled a girl over to cut a swatch.
“I’m at the D&D.”
“Listen. I just wanted to thank you for being a shoulder to cry on yesterday.”
“What are friends for?” Charlotte said, pointing the sales girl towards the silk. She mouthed a “thank you” as she tucked the swatch in her bag.
“Anyway, Charlotte, I’m crazed. I mean, we’re leaving tomorrow on safari and I have nothing, nothing to bring as a gift for Ted.”
Christ! Another favor, Charlotte muttered to herself.
“So what do you want me to do, Vicky?”
“Make a fast run up Madison,” Vicky wheedled. “See what you can find. Pretty, please?”
“No problem,” Charlotte replied, grinding her molars. “But just out of curiosity, don’t you think bringing Tom is gift enough?’
“I wish,” Vicky sighed. “Ted says he’s set up all the masseuses in one tent. There’s another tent for wardrobe. And he’s also sending over his butlers, his personal trainer, a tennis pro, his wife’s hairdresser, and the PV …”
“You’ve lost me there, Vicky. The what?”
“PV. Personal videographer, Charlotte. Where have you been? The guy’s been following him around for the past year.”
“What the hell for?” Charlotte asked.
“Ted wants a visual memoir of his family. I think it’s a marvelous idea.”
“Spare me the details, please,” Charlotte replied. “I can’t imagine anything more boring.” “Call me later,” Vicky said before hanging up.
An hour later, she was wandering through FM Allen on Madison Avenue. She’d already seen the perfect gift in the window, a 1940s English “cocktail” suitcase. It looked like something Lord Erroll in Happy Valley would have had his porters lug out into the Kenyan bush. White Mischief was one of Charlotte’s all-time favorite books. The debauchery and deceit, the unutterable boredom, of Britain’s upper classes in 1930s colonial Africa, bore an uncanny resemblance to the New York world she now worked in.
The sales clerk lifted the case out of the window and opened it for Charlotte’s inspection. Charlotte couldn’t believe the case was intact. There were two ebonized trays for lemons, limes, and olives, a miniature glass ice bucket, and six glass decanters with twelve interchangeable silver caps for brandy, bourbon, gin, rye, scotch, rum, wines and fruit juices. Ice tongs, a tiny silver hammer to crush the ice, silver shakers, and linen napkins completed the kit. Charlotte smiled. If there was one thing these Brits had that American billionaires most certainly did not, it was style.
“How much is it?” asked Charlotte.
“$14,000,” he answered nonchalantly. “It’s going to be in the March issue of Departures Magazine.”
“Well, if you would, I’d like you to send it up, on approval, to my friend on Park Avenue. I’m sure she’ll take it.”
“Of course,” the man replied, shooting his monogrammed Pinks cuffs. “I’ll take it up myself.”
The phone was vibrating in her pocket when she walked back into her loft. Slamming the door with her foot, Charlotte flipped it open.
“You’re just amazing!” Vicky cooed. “It’s the most divine thing I’ve ever seen. Ted will love it.”
“Good! Glad I could help,” Charlotte replied, dropping onto the sofa and closing her eyes. Just the sound of Vicky’s voice was aggravating. People only have as much power as you give them. People only have as much power as you give them. She repeated Anna’s phrase to herself like a mantra while rubbing her feet. After Vicky hung up with promises to send a postcard, Charlotte’s muscles gradually relaxed. She was reminded, yet again, of the rift that separated the old and newly decadent. Back in Happy Valley, even if they screwed each other’s spouses and drank themselves into stupors, they sent thank-you notes in the morning. They had manners.