The Address(7)

The receptionist stood. “This way, please.”

Bailey followed obediently, passing her old office. The woman behind the desk glanced up and gave Bailey a startled smile before snapping her head back to the fabric samples in front of her. Wanda, of all people. Wanda, who couldn’t tell the difference between shantung and dupioni. Bailey could outshine her with a client any day.

She was shown into the corner office.

“There you are, my girl.”

Tristan rose and did some kind of balletic shuffle on his way to embrace Bailey. He’d trained with American Ballet Theatre before joining interior design superstar Diego Crespo as an assistant, then worked his way up to boyfriend and business partner. Diego spent most of his time in East Hampton these days, while Tristan helmed the organization. They’d brought on Bailey right out of Parsons School of Design, and Tristan had been her main confidant and party partner until everything had tipped over the edge.

She sank into his hug. “Tristan, I missed you so much.”

“I bet you did, baby. How are you doing?” He held her at arm’s length and she blinked under his penetrating stare.

“I’m hanging in there.” A second wave of sweat, from nerves, not humidity, broke over her.

“Your hair . . .” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.

“I know, it’s a mess.”

Tristan gestured to the chair and sat on the corner of his desk. He wasn’t a handsome man, at least not as handsome as the swarthy Diego, but he knew enough to dress his lithe body with the perfect colors and cut. Today he wore an azure linen blazer that set off the blue of his eyes. His blond hair, while thinning, was pomaded into place like a schoolboy’s. Impeccably put together, as always.

“Tell me, how was Silver Hill?”

Bailey shrugged. “It was rehab. Lots of talking, lots of people bitching about their sad lives.”

“You’re feeling better?”

“Much better.”

She didn’t mention how most of the time she was dying for a drink, and that once five o’clock hit, she made herself hole up in the East Village studio apartment of her roommate from Silver Hill, where she was temporarily crashing until the girl got sprung. Bailey would pull down the Murphy bed and lie with a pillow over her head to block out the sirens and shouting, hoping it would do the same for her cravings.

“Did you see any celebrities? I heard that Liza Minnelli checked herself in. Did you meet her?”

Bailey hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid of the counselors there, all that touchy-feely stuff, but the stories she’d heard had been brutal and she respected the idea that it was all anonymous. That some dirt ought not to be dished. Of course, there was no explaining that to Tristan, who lived on gossip.

“No, didn’t see her.” She leaned forward. “But I wanted to thank you and Diego. For everything. I know you guys probably saved my life.”

Tristan waved at her and walked to the chair behind his desk. He paused a moment, dramatically, before sitting down and squaring his shoulders. “It was the right thing to do. You’re just going to have to watch yourself going forward. Only two glasses of champagne at Palladium, then I’m cutting you off.”

“No, Tristan. No more champagne.” She hoped he was joking. “I can’t drink anymore. Or do anything else.”

“Of course you can’t.”

She was eager to get that part of the conversation over with, the one that shamed her to the core. “How is business?”

“Excellent. We just got the town house on East Seventy-Seventh Street, the one that Rebecca Meyer bought in the spring.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “The renovation started a couple of weeks ago and she’s insisting on importing all the antiques from Morocco and London, if you can believe it. And get this: Last week, Lilly-Beth Latwick flew me by helicopter to her place in East Hampton because her maid had rearranged the throw pillows on the sectional, and she couldn’t remember which way they should go.” He snapped his fingers. “Chopper, baby.”

“Wow. That’s insane.”

“We also landed the Sanfords’ beach house. Massive place, all Zen aesthetic and ferns. I have Wanda on that one. I figure she can’t go wrong when everything will be shades of white. White carpet, white sofas.”

“You better stay on top of her. If anyone could choose clashing shades of eggshell, it would be her.”

“Good point.” He smiled, offering a view of gleaming teeth, like a row of Chiclets.

“In fact, that was why I wanted to stop by today.”

The teeth disappeared.

“I know I blew out of here in a spectacular fashion, but I’d like to make it up to you and Diego. For everything you’ve done for me these past few months. I could work with Wanda, act as a go-between with the Sanfords. You know her people skills leave a lot to be desired.”

Tristan sighed. “I know, darling. We would love to have you back.”

Thank God. One problem solved.

“But the news got around fast. Of course, how could it not? You were screaming at Mrs. Ashfield-Simmons in the middle of the Oak Room, telling her that her daughter’s apartment was a nightmare. ‘A blend of medieval bullshit and white trash,’ I believe you said.”

Bailey cringed. She didn’t remember any of it. She knew, of course, that she’d made a fool of herself and the company. “I’ll call her and apologize. I’ll write a letter to her daughter, too. I’ll make it all good.”