On What Grounds

A typical Swedish blond, the man wasn’t exactly an albino but close. A white rabbit would be a fair comparison.

His wife, “Fiona,” according to the articles, was a brunette of the Jackie O. variety. A willowy WASP in the way all socialite wives are willowy WASPs (even when they’re Greek or Jewish or Nordic and not even technically the garden-variety Anglo-Saxon Protestants). I don’t know why they all have the same looks and mannerisms. Maybe it’s the extreme hygiene and slight dehydration from hours spent at spas and health clubs that cause the perpetually pinched, unamused look, the long, strained neck, the tight lips and drawn skin.

In face and form, Richard, Junior, appeared to take after his mother with a svelte stature, refined features, and dark hair. Odds were good he was part of the type I’d encountered many times before among the wealthy of this burgh. The “born of money and indifference” earmarks were there: floppy haircut, careless posture, even the “sensitive, intelligent boy” look about the eyes. Odds were he’d play up the latter in the presence of check-writing Mother and Daddy, but would drop it fast around his male college friends, who would share his penchant for mocking everyone and everything but their own pursuits of pleasure, usually drinking, drugging, and copulating.

Beside him sat a gravely thin young brunette with sunken cheeks and an expression of above-it-all boredom. Her little black sleeveless dress, the conforming little socialite number sold as a WASP “classic” by every high-end boutique in the city, seemed to be the carbon copy of his mother’s. The two even wore similar strings of pearls at the neck.

Since I was certain that Anabelle had been seeing Richard, Junior, over the summer—and was now pregnant with his child—I had assumed upon approaching the table that the bored young woman sitting beside Junior here was a sister or cousin of his.

Time to find out, I thought.

Gathering my courage and suppressing some but far from all of my nerves, I glided up to the table with as haughty a mask as I’d ever pulled off. “Excuse me,” I said, looking down my nose as far as I dared without appearing ridiculous, “but are you Mr. and Mrs. Engstrum?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “And who might you be?”

The tone was not polite and not meant to be. It was a tone for intimidating and squashing, for warning a possible inferior to keep her distance. I’d come up against it countless times before and so barely batted an eyelash.

“I go by C. C., and I’m helping out the Town and Country photographer tonight,” I said with an intentionally plastic smile. “Taking a few notes on select guests so we can follow up with a photograph. Would you mind speaking with me?”

Richard, Senior, looked right through me about halfway into my spiel. “I’m getting a drink,” he said to his wife and brushed past without so much as a “Pardon me.”

The rudeness didn’t surprise me. Richard, Senior, was the sort who saved his efforts and manners for people that “mattered,” and I was not pretending to be from the Wall Street Journal or Financial Times. My periodical front was the bible for the modern American social register, which meant Mrs. Engstrum was the one I had to buffalo—and the one I meant to buffalo.

I knew very well the best leverage I could apply in this situation was one mother to another. For that, I’d need to reel in Mrs. Engstrum.

“Town and Country, you say?” she asked, pausing at length to eye my Valentino gown with the judgment of the hypercritical. One can only assume I’d passed her evaluation process at the subatomic level when she finally said, “Yes, I’m sure we can spare a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down?”

The response was designed to make me feel ever so grateful for her time, as if having a husband with a NASDAQ symbol were akin to inheriting the English throne.

Get a grip, sweetie, I was dying to say. Your husband’s $95-a-share IPO was worth about two bucks the last time I looked. Not a spectacular calling card in the e-rolodexes of the little silver Palm Pilots on that ballroom dance floor.

But I didn’t say that, of course. What I did say was “Thank you so much!”

And I sat.

The East Indian couple at the far end of the table rose just as I sank down, leaving a total of six empty chairs at this table for ten.

Presumably the Engstrums had so enthralled their fellow dinner partners with sparkling wit and dynamic conversation that their six dinner companions had run for the bar or the dance floor the very first chance they got.

I pulled my small notebook and pen out of my purse.

“Now, Mrs. Engstrum, let’s start with you. I know your first name is Fiona—would you mind confirming the spelling?”

After the pretense of getting the family names correct for the “photo captions,” I turned to the young woman sitting beside Junior.

“And you are?”

“Sydney Walden-Sargent.”

“And your age, miss?”

“Nineteen.”

“She’s a sophomore at Vassar,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “And you can print that she is indeed related to the celebrated Sargent family.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, scribbling away.

The Sargent family, per se, hadn’t achieved anything in any field that could be considered consequential. But they were famous nonetheless. The reason: Their legendary cousins, who had been winning national political offices and influencing government policies for decades. Thanks to their famous cousins, the Sargents had gained the clout to secure everything from executive positions at major corporations, and ambassadorships, to seats on prestigious New York museum and performing arts boards.

“They’re engaged,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “You can print that, too.”

“Engaged, you say? How nice. Congratulations.” I turned to Anabelle’s beau. “Young Mr. Engstrum, you must be very happy. When did you first ask Miss Walden-Sargent to be your wife?”

The glazed eyes of Richard, Junior, attempted to refocus. Clearly, making any effort for this conversation was not high on his agenda (a chip off the old block). “What?” he said.

“I asked how long you’ve been engaged,” I told him.

“Oh, how long,” he repeated, glancing at Syndey. “Awhile, right? Last February.”

“Valentine’s Day! It was Valentine’s Day,” said Sydney Walden-Sargent, leaning toward me to imply I should make it sound good in the caption. “It was very romantic.”

Junior smiled weakly and shrugged. “Yeah, that’s right.”

That’s right?! I wanted to scream. No, you little shithead, that’s wrong. If you were engaged to little Miss Vassar here, then why the hell were you sleeping with Anabelle Hart half the summer? I felt my fingers squeezing the life out of my felt-tipped Scripto.

“Just a few more questions,” I said tightly but was interrupted by the appearance of one of the Waldorf- Astoria’s black-jacketed waiters.

“Coffee, decaf, or tea?”

They were about to serve dessert, I realized. Matt and I had missed the entire dinner. I hoped Madame wouldn’t be hurt that we’d disappeared on her and her guests, but we were doing this for a good cause—her cause, saving the Blend.

“Nothing for me,” I said to the waiter, hoping I could make it back to table five in time for coffee at least.

“Tea,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “For all of us. Bring a pot, please.”

“Tea?” I asked. “You prefer tea, do you?”

“We got into the habit when Richard was working in London. It’s all we’ve been drinking now for over a decade.”