something to eat or drink. He gets upset if I ask one of the
girls,” Mrs. Friendly said and waved off a uniformed maid who’d come into the
room.
They sat on the deep, creaky sofa. Creaks,
except on floors and staircases, always seemed a little rude to Nancy . “We’re fine.”
“Gigi Barton is raving about with the
slumber party you’re arranging for her. I wonder how old she is now. She’s had
so much work done you’d have to saw her across like a redwood and count the
rings to know her age.”
Nancy had checked the guest list yesterday
and knew that Mrs. Friendly hadn’t responded to her invitation. “I hope you’ll
be able to make it this Friday.”
“Lord, no! I made the mistake of going
to Gigi’s second wedding. Mr. Friendly and I woke up three days later on a tiny
island in Belize with a deed in his hand and the worst hangovers of our lives. It turned out to
be a good purchase though, because he loved to swing in his hammock there.”
As much as Nancy wanted to gossip, she knew she had to
act like a real businesswoman. “How fun! Now let’s talk about the annual gala.”
Mrs. Friendly adjusted her red wig and
said, “Do you know that unlike all the fancy fundraisers mine actually raises
money?”
Nancy smiled. “I didn’t know that. But the
primary purpose of the other fundraisers is to promote the organizations. The
more impressive the party, the bigger annual donor base you’ll develop.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. My event
turns a profit, but it’s only one day of the year. The rest of the time, our
operating fund leaks like an old whore. I’m tired of writing the checks, so I
want you to bring in the glamorpusses and let them take over the society.”
As Mrs. Friendly spoke, Derek reached
into his inside pocket and brought out a small notepad and a silver pen. He looked
so comfortable taking notes, as if he’d spent his life transcribing
conversations.
Nancy said, “I think there are a few ways we
can make the event more of a social-must!”
“Honey, talk straight. I can take it.”
Nancy couldn’t help smiling. “Your fundraiser
is stuck in a scary time warp of egg-salad sandwiches and canned lobster bisque.
It’s tacky and depressing.”
Mrs. Friendly laughed. “Don’t I know it!
When I first joined, I tried dolling it up, but the hags on the board wanted me
to fetch their tea and keep my yap shut. I’ve been serving crappy canapés ever
since. Teach people not to get snotty with Mrs. goddamn Bentley Jamieson
Friendly.”
“But those hags are long gone.”
“It got to be a tradition, and Greene liked
the pinwheel sandwiches.”
As if summoned, her quaint and ancient
retainer shuffled into the room, pushing a drinks trolley atop which teetered a
frosty glass pitcher and a clatter of unmatched tumblers. He stopped in front
of his employer.
“What have you brought, Greene?” Mrs.
Friendly asked.
“If you like piña coladas and getting
caught in the rain…” he warbled. He poured a tumbler to the brim, stuck a pink
straw in it, and carried it out of the room, singing, “If you’re not into yoga,
and you have half a brain…”
“He remembers song lyrics perfectly,”
Mrs. Friendly said with an admiring tone. “He listens to whatever Cook is
listening to, and Cook is an old pothead. I hear an awful lot of Rupert Holmes
and the Doobie Brothers. On good days, we might get Tony Bennett or the Eagles.”
“Allow me,” Derek said, and he stood and
poured drinks for the women.
Mrs. Friendly looked up at him. “You’re
a nice stretch of a fellow. Let me get a good gander.” Derek bent toward her
and she gazed into his face. “You remind me of someone I knew once. Where are you
from?”
“Derek is English,” Nancy said.
“That’s how it is – the older I get, the
more I keep imagining that I’m seeing ghosts from the past. Pour a drink for
yourself, young man.”
Derek didn’t decline or accept, but politely
handed the women their
girls,” Mrs. Friendly said and waved off a uniformed maid who’d come into the
room.
They sat on the deep, creaky sofa. Creaks,
except on floors and staircases, always seemed a little rude to Nancy . “We’re fine.”
“Gigi Barton is raving about with the
slumber party you’re arranging for her. I wonder how old she is now. She’s had
so much work done you’d have to saw her across like a redwood and count the
rings to know her age.”
Nancy had checked the guest list yesterday
and knew that Mrs. Friendly hadn’t responded to her invitation. “I hope you’ll
be able to make it this Friday.”
“Lord, no! I made the mistake of going
to Gigi’s second wedding. Mr. Friendly and I woke up three days later on a tiny
island in Belize with a deed in his hand and the worst hangovers of our lives. It turned out to
be a good purchase though, because he loved to swing in his hammock there.”
As much as Nancy wanted to gossip, she knew she had to
act like a real businesswoman. “How fun! Now let’s talk about the annual gala.”
Mrs. Friendly adjusted her red wig and
said, “Do you know that unlike all the fancy fundraisers mine actually raises
money?”
Nancy smiled. “I didn’t know that. But the
primary purpose of the other fundraisers is to promote the organizations. The
more impressive the party, the bigger annual donor base you’ll develop.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. My event
turns a profit, but it’s only one day of the year. The rest of the time, our
operating fund leaks like an old whore. I’m tired of writing the checks, so I
want you to bring in the glamorpusses and let them take over the society.”
As Mrs. Friendly spoke, Derek reached
into his inside pocket and brought out a small notepad and a silver pen. He looked
so comfortable taking notes, as if he’d spent his life transcribing
conversations.
Nancy said, “I think there are a few ways we
can make the event more of a social-must!”
“Honey, talk straight. I can take it.”
Nancy couldn’t help smiling. “Your fundraiser
is stuck in a scary time warp of egg-salad sandwiches and canned lobster bisque.
It’s tacky and depressing.”
Mrs. Friendly laughed. “Don’t I know it!
When I first joined, I tried dolling it up, but the hags on the board wanted me
to fetch their tea and keep my yap shut. I’ve been serving crappy canapés ever
since. Teach people not to get snotty with Mrs. goddamn Bentley Jamieson
Friendly.”
“But those hags are long gone.”
“It got to be a tradition, and Greene liked
the pinwheel sandwiches.”
As if summoned, her quaint and ancient
retainer shuffled into the room, pushing a drinks trolley atop which teetered a
frosty glass pitcher and a clatter of unmatched tumblers. He stopped in front
of his employer.
“What have you brought, Greene?” Mrs.
Friendly asked.
“If you like piña coladas and getting
caught in the rain…” he warbled. He poured a tumbler to the brim, stuck a pink
straw in it, and carried it out of the room, singing, “If you’re not into yoga,
and you have half a brain…”
“He remembers song lyrics perfectly,”
Mrs. Friendly said with an admiring tone. “He listens to whatever Cook is
listening to, and Cook is an old pothead. I hear an awful lot of Rupert Holmes
and the Doobie Brothers. On good days, we might get Tony Bennett or the Eagles.”
“Allow me,” Derek said, and he stood and
poured drinks for the women.
Mrs. Friendly looked up at him. “You’re
a nice stretch of a fellow. Let me get a good gander.” Derek bent toward her
and she gazed into his face. “You remind me of someone I knew once. Where are you
from?”
“Derek is English,” Nancy said.
“That’s how it is – the older I get, the
more I keep imagining that I’m seeing ghosts from the past. Pour a drink for
yourself, young man.”
Derek didn’t decline or accept, but politely
handed the women their
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