Big Summer(31)

“You look lovely,” she said.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Cavanaugh,” I said. “It’s so good to see you again.” I tried not to think too hard about what this terrifyingly thin, terrifyingly chic woman’s real opinion of my looks might have been. “You must be so happy for Drue.”

She gave me a brittle smile and said, “Well.” I wasn’t sure if that was the beginning of a longer reply or her answer in its entirety, but I didn’t have a chance to find out, because the next minute, Drue was grabbing my arm.

“Mére, I’m going to steal Daphne for a minute. She needs to meet the rest of the bridesmaids!” Drue pulled me into another living room—this one with a flat-screen TV, disguised as a painting, hanging over a fireplace—and introduced me to Minerva, a petite woman with dark hair pulled severely back from her face. Minerva spoke with a faint, unplaceable accent. Her skin was blemish-free and creamy, her eyes were big and brown, subtly tilted at the corners, and her makeup was so extreme, with contoured cheekbones and thick, black brows that extended above and beyond her own eyebrows, that I thought if I ever saw her makeup-free, I wouldn’t recognize her. “Minerva is the pore whisperer. Her salon was just named one of the best in the city in New York magazine!”

“And Drue’s my very best client,” said Minerva. A bridesmaid/facialist, I thought, feeling a little giddy. Because of course!

I met Natalie, Drue’s assistant, a striking young woman with dark, glossy skin, full red lips, and a corona of curls that framed her face and added four inches to her height. Natalie wore gold cuffs on each wrist and gold bars through her ears. “You have got to check out Natalie’s Instagram,” Drue said. “She does this steampunk Afro-futuristic thing. It’s amazing!” I met Cousin Pat, who was expecting, and Cousin Clair, who’d just had a baby. They reminded me of Ainsley and Avery back in high school; both pale, imperfect copies of Drue, with versions of her features and her hair. Cousin Pat looked ready to pop—“eight weeks to go,” she said, with a tense smile and an expression suggesting that I wasn’t the first guest to ask about her due date. Cousin Clair had the haunted, sleepless look I’d seen before on the faces of mothers with newborns. They gave Drue tired smiles and me limp handshakes.

“And come meet Corina!” Drue led me to a flaxen-haired woman in a dress made of floaty panels of beige and cream-colored lace. Corina was tiny, maybe five feet tall, with rosebud lips and wide pale-blue eyes. Some of her hair had been plaited into a narrow braid that followed the curve of her head. The rest hung loose, halfway down her back. She looked otherworldly, like a fairy princess, with her dreamy gaze and her hair, which was such a pale blond that it looked almost silver under the light.

“Hi, honey,” Drue said, bending to embrace Corina.

“Hi, sweetie,” Corina said back, in the breathy whisper I remembered from the show. “Thank you so much for having me.” She looked around, wide-eyed and pleased-looking. “New York City is amazing. The Big Apple. I can’t believe I’m here!”

“Is it your first time in the city?” I asked.

“My first time since the show.”

“Oh, right,” I said, remembering. The cast of All the Single Ladies had spent a long weekend in New York. One of them—not Corina—had been chosen for a Dream Date: a ride through Central Park in a horse and carriage, followed by dinner at a restaurant that had paid for the privilege of being featured on the show. The rest of the women had stayed in their hotel suite, forming and re-forming alliances and gossiping to the camera. “You didn’t get out much, though, right?”

She shook her head, silvery hair swishing. “I’m just so glad to be here. And so excited! I want to see the Statue of Liberty… and the Empire State Building… and Times Square…” Drue and I exchanged a knowing, native New Yorker glance over her head.

“And I’m meeting an agent!” Corina said. Her voice was high and breathy, like a parody of a little girl’s.

“For DJing?” I asked.

“For Instagram!” she said. She widened her eyes. “There’s already a diet tea that wants to collaborate. And a waist trainer!”

“Lucky you,” said Drue, giving me another eye roll over Corina’s head. I forced myself to smile. Of course all of the participants in reality shows were hot commodities on social media. Of course Corina had brands lining up to hire her. Of course I had to suffer humiliation and shame to get my tiny toehold on the Internet, while petite, pretty blondes had fame and fortune handed to them, with a pot of diet tea and a waist trainer. Of course.

Shame and envy and impotent rage washed over me. I made myself breathe, made myself focus. Name five things you can see. Rich person, rich person, rich person, rich person, and me, I thought, and smiled.

After Corina had drifted off toward the bar, Drue pulled me into a corner, where we sat down on a blue velvet chaise longue. “So what do you think of Stuart?”

What could I say? “He seems great. Very friendly and smart.”

Drue gave me a look of fond exasperation. “That’s all?”

“Well, we haven’t really talked.”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s to talk about? He’s hot, he’s famous, and he went to Harvard. And he’s launching the most amazing business.” She straightened her back, raised her chin, and folded her hands at her waist. “Two words,” she said, with a smile lifting the corner of her mouth. “Brain smoothies.”