We Are Us

Excerpt from Throne of Lies November 2007

Jolie

“I can’t believe you and Daddy are making me do this.”

“Jolie, I don’t understand your attitude. This is a privilege, not a punishment.” There was a flush on Nina’s cheeks that I’d only seen after I came home from school, usually while she was sipping a glass of Rosé. But it wasn’t even noon yet, and the patches on her cheeks were from a

I stifled a yawn as Nina launched into yet another history lesson on the origins of the International Debutante Ball. By now I could repeat it, verbatim, in my sleep. Normally, I liked my stepmother, I really did. My own mother died before I was in kindergarten, and Nina was a vast improvement over the revolving door of paid employees that had raised me until a few years ago, when Nina moved in and never left. She was only fifteen years older than me and felt more like an older sister than a stepmother. While that may have bothered others, I enjoyed having someone young and fun to hang around with.

Finally, I interrupted. “You could have at least let me choose my own date. I haven’t seen Remington Montgomery in years—I barely even remember him.” I knew I was blaming Nina unfairly, but this entire affair had rubbed me the wrong way. First of all, it was absolutely galling that debutantes didn’t have dates, they had ‘escorts’—like we needed someone with a penis to shepherd us through this overhyped snob-fest. And then for my father to insist my escort be the son of his business partner . . . it made me want to scream.

Not that I had anything against Remington. How could I? We’d only met a handful of times, despite living just a few blocks from each other on Manhattan’s Upper East Side our entire lives. But he was a couple of years older than me, maybe three, and we’d always gone to different schools.

“He seems like a lovely boy,” Nina said, her tone measured and clearly intending to soothe, but maddening all the same.

“Well, I hope you recognize him, because I don’t know that I will.”

Nina plucked a nonexistent piece of lint from her dress, lips twitching from holding back a bemused smile. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine. Today is only a brunch, Jolie. Maybe I’ll sneak you a Mimosa to get you to relax.”

I sent my eyes skyward, a gesture that seemed the most appropriate response to just about anything Nina or my father said these days. “Is that a promise?”

When Nina didn’t answer, I sighed and looked out the window. The actual Debutante Ball was still a month away, but today was one of the pre-ball activities. It wasn’t called a season for nothing. Besides the Bachelor Brunch, there was the Mother-Daughter Luncheon, Father-Daughter Luncheon, Pre-Ball Cocktail Party, and Post-Ball Reception.

Yes, it really was called the Bachelor Brunch. And no, we weren’t contestants in a reality show. Although by this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me to come out of this experience with a dowry and a betrothal—or at least a red rose.

Remington Montgomery. The last time I saw him was at some award ceremony a few years ago, honoring our fathers. He’d been tall, that I remembered, mostly because I had a habit of scouring every room for people my height or taller. At seventeen, most boys my age were finally catching up with me, although I said a prayer every night that I would stop growing. I was five-eight and a half, and wanted to keep it that way . . . except my favorite pair of jeans hinted that I’d recently climbed closer to five-nine.

Anyway, that was all I could remember about Remington. He was tall. Or at least, he’d appeared tall back then. Brown hair or blond, surfer-boy cute or gamer-geeky—I hadn’t a clue.

“Will you recognize him?” I prodded Nina, my voice climbing higher from nerves.

“Hmmm?” Nina had been staring out the window, too. It probably would have been quicker to walk from our apartment than to take a car, but even I wouldn’t want to walk twenty-blocks in the shoes I’d squeezed into. I could have sworn they fit a month ago when Nina dragged me to Bergdorfs.

“Remington. Will you recognize him?”

“Of course. At least, I think so. But don’t worry. Your father will be there, and I’m sure Remington’s—”

“Why didn’t Daddy come with us from home?”

“Honey, you know your father has to work.”

“But it’s Saturday. And he wanted me to do the whole debutante thing as badly as you did. The least he could do is suffer along with me,” I grumbled, despite being well aware that my father worked all the time, and weekends were no exception.

As the car finally glided to a stop at the curb, Nina reached out to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. “For now, you’ve got me. Think you can make do?”

I relented. Even if my father had been sitting beside me, his face would probably be buried in the Wall Street Journal or an industry research report. I should be grateful Nina was by my side. “Sorry, I really don’t mean to be such a brat. Thanks for being here.”

My stepmother’s pretty face brightened as her lips pulled into a smile. “You’re not a brat, Jolie. You’re a debutante.”

The ridiculousness of the statement sent a matching grin onto my face. “Not sure if that’s a promotion, but I’ll take it.” I followed her out of the car, keeping my knees together to avoid flashing the waiting society page photographers—I wasn’t wearing a floor length white gown just yet.

This year’s Bachelor Brunch was being held at an elegant French restaurant. Nina and I walked beneath a white canopy and through the double doors held open by men wearing dark suits and earpieces. Security was to be expected. The last name of every debutante could be found somewhere on the Forbes 400. Inside, the lights were soft, every available surface sporting floral arrangements with this year’s colors—pink and gold.

It smelled like a greenhouse, and felt just as humid.

Just beyond the lobby entrance, people weren’t mingling so much as clumping together by age and gender. Groups of teenaged girls looked around like frightened rabbits, eyes jumping between their parents and their escorts-to-be. Young men sporting fraternity ties shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking like they wished they were holding lacrosse sticks instead of sodas. Wealthy magnates, clutching crystal tumblers filled with liquor, crowed about their latest hostile takeover or international negotiation while their middle-aged society wives showed off their latest Guilt Gift, designed to distract them from their husband’s most recent affair.

“I think I see Lily Montgomery, but I’m not sure which of those boys is her son,” Nina said, sticking close to me. Reluctance to shoulder her way in with what appeared to be a primarily First-Wives Club came off her in waves.

Spotting a small group of women who resembled Nina at the back of the room—early thirties, blonde, fit, and wearing trendy clothes designed to show off their figures rather than hide their flaws—I tipped my chin in their direction.

“Ah, my tribe.” Her grateful grin faded as she turned back to me. “I don’t see your father yet and to be honest, all these boys look the same to me. Will you be okay?”

I squared my shoulders, feeling better now that I knew we were both in the same leaky boat. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

She rested a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder. “Your father will be here soon, I’m sure of it.”