Good Rich People(8)
“Lyla.” Margo’s plastic surgery isn’t perfect. If you look closely, you can see her original face.
“Margo.”
At one time, she was more beautiful than Graham, but her beauty read as artifice. She has black hair, blue eyes with a violet tint. Like Graham, she has dimples when she smiles, and they deepen when she smirks. “Where did you come from? Not wandering the streets, I hope.”
“I went for a walk around the reservoir. I was planning my first move.”
“How quaint. Have you read the e-mail?” Bean is sniffing a piss stain on the ground.
“Of course.”
She crosses her arms. She is dressed in all white, her signature color, and with her piled black hair and her violet-tinged eyes, she looks like Elizabeth Taylor’s stand-in. “What are you thinking?”
It’s a test. Everything with Margo is a test I can’t pass. I want to tell her that she wants me to lose. Instead I say, “I don’t understand why someone like that would want to live here.”
Margo flinches, so I know I’ve scored. “Everyone wants to live here, dear.”
“Not everyone.”
“Well.” Her lip fillers stretch. “You’re still here.” She slides the leash through her fingers. “Can I give you some advice?” I want to say no but I also need help. My mind is a fog of panic. “Figure out what she wants. Then give it to her.”
“I thought I was supposed to ruin her.”
“Oh, Lyla.” She clucks her tongue, flicks the lead’s handle back and forth. “Haven’t you noticed? Giving someone what they want is the worst thing you can do to a person.” She thinks she is being clever, talking about me. “How is Graham? Are you taking care of him?” she says like she knows I can’t.
“He’s fine.”
“He was very upset about the last girl.” He didn’t seem upset to me, but she often acts like he confides in her when he never does me. It’s another thing about Graham that drives me wild. I am sure that he needs my help, that I could save him, if only he would let me. If only he would come to me and not to Margo.
“I know,” I lie, and she loves it. I have walked right into her conversation trap.
“But you won’t let him down this time. You’ll keep him entertained.” The word is nasty on her tongue.
Bean jumps forward suddenly, barking at a phantom in the trees. Margo jerks her leash so the chain rattles, but Bean ignores it, lost as the predator, lost in the prey.
LYLA
That afternoon, I go to meet my friends. I hate them but you have to have friends. Today we are in Mitsi’s garden because she is throwing us all an un-birthday party. She ran out of real things to celebrate, so she has started creating holidays.
Her garden is California pastoral. It’s lush and stuffed full with a variety of plants but they’re spiky, they’re desert and tough, so the garden is beautiful but treacherous. An aloe plant scrapes my leg as I follow her staff up the red tile path. At the top of the garden, where Mitsi and my friends collect, the view opens up and you can see the hills and the gray fog of downtown Beverly Hills.
All the women are crammed artfully around a table with so much decor, the servers can hardly find space for the plates: There are fine china teacups and Fabergé eggs. The egg at the center of the table is cracked open and stuffed with gold dust. Everyone is doing gold dust this year.
I brought a whole case of Mo?t. Her staff sets it on the gift table.
“Thank you so much!” Mitsi exclaims. Mitsi’s expression is always tinged with the disappointment of discovering that she has her mother’s face after all. She is not beautiful, so everyone likes her the best and wonders about it: There’s just something about Mitsi! She’s not competition. She makes you feel like you’re winning.
“You brought that last time,” Posey says, sipping her Veuve. Posey is just pretty, but so stylish that she can afford to be an asshole. She has a way of dressing like she should be hanging in the Met. Today she wears some thick draped thing—the kind of dress an artist would use to study folds—with a matching scarf tied around her head. She looks ridiculous and gorgeous at the same time, which is the most attention-getting kind of gorgeous.
“It’s not a real party,” I snap back.
“These are from my real birthday,” Mitsi says, indicating the frothy white garlands crisscrossing above our heads. “I’m always trying to reuse. I almost wore this dress before.”
“It looks stunning!” Peaches walks in behind me, carrying a cut-glass vase of hothouse flowers. “Where should I put this?”
“Anywhere!” Mitsi gestures to the overcrowded tables. “It’s beautiful!” Peaches searches for a place, then finally hands the flowers off to the staff, never to be seen again.
We all arrange ourselves around the table. There are twenty of us, but only three who matter: the wives of Graham’s old school friends. Everyone is wearing pastels except me. I’m wearing my signature color.
“You know,” Posey says, sitting next to me. “I really admire your commitment to gray.” She makes “gray” sound like “drab,” and I question my whole existence.
We go through the charade of a tea party like a pack of twelve-year-olds. The staff pours tea and serves cakes. Everything they serve us changes colors, smokes or has to be set on fire. This usually involves a lot of awkward waiting as they struggle to get it right—It worked upstairs! Sorry. This will take just a second! And then, once everyone has moved on, it happens in a flash—Oh! And everyone gasps or offers halfhearted claps. We are required to “squeal” over something once every ten minutes. When you’re rich, there is no work harder than being impressed.