White Ivy(43)

Liana walked toward them, still carrying the girl. She greeted Gideon with a warm kiss, then shook Ivy’s hand. Ivy found it impossible to determine Liana’s age or accent, which was clipped and sounded vaguely German.

Gideon said, “How old are you now, Coco?” The little girl held up five fingers. She was dressed in a lime-green tutu and white tights, and much fuss was made about the green glitter on her chubby cheeks in the shape of a dragonfly. “What’s a dragonfly called in Chinese, Coco?” said Dave. No response. “You learned it this morning.” Everyone waited. Coco whispered something Ivy was pretty sure did not mean dragonfly. “You are so smart, my love,” said Liana. Dave gave his daughter three exuberant smacks, pulling away with glittering lips. I was five, Ivy thought, when the flight attendant left me at Logan Airport.

“I read the other day that toddlers can learn up to four languages with relative ease,” Liana said to Ivy, handing the girl to the nanny. “So Coco is a little behind.”

“She seems smarter than many of my six-year-olds,” said Ivy.

“She is precocious,” Liana conceded, “but maybe everyone feels that way about their own child.”

A waiter came around with a tray of mojitos. Both Ivy and Liana took one. Liana stirred the mint leaves in her glass until the rum turned muddy. “Before Coco,” she said, “I thought having children would be tiresome. I would be tied down. Lose everything I’ve worked for. But actually it’s the opposite—she’s given meaning to everything I do. You’ll understand when you have your own.”

Ivy nodded earnestly. So this was Liana’s main theme. Powerful human rights lawyer, gave it all up for the charms of motherhood. Not a new story. Yet, for the rest of her life, Liana would still feel compelled to demonstrate that she regretted nothing, she was in no way diminished or lesser than her ancient, white-haired husband, whom everyone secretly believed she’d married for his money (had he supported her through law school?). All women, Ivy was beginning to understand, had a theme. The story they constantly told themselves. The innermost wound.

When Liana stopped talking, Ivy complimented the other woman on her satin slippers—“They’re so intricate, and they go so well with your dress”—but actually, she thought they looked like those dollar shoes they sold to tourists in Chinatown, red and shiny, with a black plastic sole, the cloth embroidered with cherry blossoms.

Liana smiled kindly but the kindness felt condescending. So we’re back to this, the smile seemed to say.

“They’re by this amazing designer, Ralph Li-Ping. I try to support Asian designers and artists.”

Ivy smiled. Both women took a long sip of their drinks.

“Dave, what are you looking at?” Liana asked, clearly finished with playing the role of mentor. Ivy felt like a new toy passed around from Dave to Liana, neither of them particularly interested in playing with it, but obligated to feign minimal enthusiasm for Gideon’s sake.

Dave was showing Gideon something on his phone. “We’re not supposed to tell anyone yet, but Liana will be the face of Christopher Zhu’s fall campaign. This is a video he sent me of Liana at Tokyo’s fashion week. He said he hoped I didn’t mind sharing her—he called her his muse.”

Gideon and Ivy bent their heads over the screen. There was Liana, her face announcing itself like a blazing sun amongst moons, sitting in the first row with two willowy models on either side. Her deep voice carried over the chatter of the room to the person recording the video. She was speaking Chinese to the black-haired companion on her left, but badly. Her pronunciation was even worse than Austin’s.

Dave beamed expectantly. Ivy murmured her praise.

“You know,” said Dave, cocking his head from Ivy to Liana. “I didn’t notice it until just now, but you two could be sisters.”

“We look nothing alike, sweetie,” said Liana. “I have at least ten years on Ivy.”

Gideon replayed the video, listening with surprise. “I didn’t know you could speak Chinese, Liana.”

“Kindergarten level,” said Liana. She explained how she’d been taking classes twice a week to learn Mandarin. She was expected to make a five-minute speech for her charity foundation that would be broadcast on CCTV.

“When is this?” asked Gideon.

“September.”

“You still have time. Will it be recorded? I’d love to see it.”

Liana said she would try to get someone to film her. She and Gideon smiled at each other.

Liana turned to Ivy. “Do you speak Mandarin?”

“Not well.”

“Say something,” said Dave.

“Like what?” said Ivy, feeling a new degree of sympathy for Coco Finley.

“Say, ‘The weather today is seventy degrees.’?”

Ivy said the phrase in Chinese.

“Your accent is good!” Liana said in surprise—too much surprise, Ivy thought resentfully. “Maybe you could go over my speech with me. My Chinese tutor has been insufferable lately, I’d be thrilled to make some real progress for once.”

“If it would help,” said Ivy. She stared and stared. She could not fathom the idea that any man, let alone Gideon, would find such a face attractive—and yet Liana had inspired a designer to artistic glory! He’d called her his muse!