“Hello,” she said politely. There were two five-pound pink-crystal-encrusted dumbbells in front of her place setting. Dumbbells at the dinner table? Was she raised by wolves? Okay, I admit it. I can be judgmental to a fault. It’s something I picked up at church as a kid.
Denis’ ten-year-old, Annie, was too involved with her Game Boy to say hello. Her manny, Manuel, actually said, “Call me Manny,” when we were introduced. Manny (who was indeed a man) was twentyish, thin like a distance runner, with thick black hair and heavy-lidded smoky-colored bedroom eyes. Why one would hire a manny with bedroom eyes, I’ll never understand. Why one would hire a manny instead of a nanny for a little girl, I’ll never understand that, either.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked Annie.
“I’m getting to miss it for my dad’s wedding. Whoo-hoo,” she tooted.
“But you’re keeping a trip diary and writing a report, right?” Denis said.
Annie rolled her eyes. “I guess.”
“This is Sydney’s mother, Bunny,” Denis said, gesturing toward a blue-black-haired, patrician seventy-something woman attempting to pass herself off as late fiftyish (the crepey neck, smooth face mismatch was the giveaway). Nothing makes a woman look so old as desperately trying to look young. Coco Chanel said that and she should know. Bunny was impeccably dressed and coiffed, her skin tan and her lined lips like two perfect pincushions. With an icy smile and silken tone, she said, “So nice to make your acquaintance.”
“You too,” I said. Bunny frightened me.
A man seated to her left jumped up and took my hand, squeezing it. “Jolly good to meet you,” he said breathlessly. “I’m Bunny’s third and newest husband, Aston Martin. That’s just like the car, only no relation.” Aston was a tall, lanky chap with a shiny bald noggin. With his old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses and skinny tie, he looked he’d stepped out of a black-and-white TV show from the 1950s.
I glanced at Pops, who was already seated, grinning amusedly and sipping a martini. He had relaxed considerably since last I saw him, no doubt after several cocktails. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass my way.
“Has everyone met my father?” I asked.
Pops raised his glass. “Sven Ross, man of the people,” he said.
“Darlin’, you never told me your father was such a fox,” Carleen whispered.
“You think?”
“Hubba hubba,” she said under her breath. “At my age, any man without stiff whiskers growin’ out his ears is hot. Tell me, is there a Mrs. Ross?”
“Mama died when I was young; she’s long gone. Speaking of gone, where’s the captain?” I asked, sitting down next to Carleen. There was one more empty seat at the table. I assumed it belonged to him.
“He only comes on formal nights,” she explained.
Denis King was staring at me. How could he not remember the girl who called him Penis in public? Frankly, I was hurt.
We studied our menus as the headwaiter, assistant headwaiter, and sommelier glided noiselessly about, delivering bread, pouring water, and popping open bottles of champagne. I started with deep-fried zucchini flowers with shellfish and saffron consommé, then ordered lobster medallions with a puree of green apple and black truffle, and finally millefoglie stracchin, a delicate pastry filled with vanilla soufflé. Hopefully I’d put on a few pounds.
“Aren’t you speaking tomorrow?” Carleen asked.
“Yes, at ten in the Galaxy Lounge. I hope you’ll come.”
“What’s your topic?” Bunny asked.
“Hollywood legends as style makers.”
“So you’re what, some sort of fashion expert?” she asked.
Denis’ eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Bingo! If this were What’s My Line? he would have slammed the buzzer.
“Bugger,” Aston said. “That’s exactly when they’re having the auction for French Impressionist paintings. I have my eye on the Degas.”
“You mean the ballet dancer?” Pops said. “I was intent on acquiring that for my collection.”
“Don’t think you can outbid me, old chap,” Aston said. “I’m a force of nature.”
“If it’s that important to you,” Pops conceded, “then I shall refrain from bidding.”
“You, sir, are a true gentleman,” Aston said. “May I buy you a drink after dinner?”
“You may buy me several,” Pops said, “plus a Cuban cigar.”
I gave Pops a “Shut your trap; remember what we’re here for” look.
“I want to do the scavenger hunt tomorrow,” Annie said.
“Cool, I love scavenger hunts. I’ll take you,” Denis offered.
“No, I want to go with Maaaanny,” she whined.
Denis gazed at his daughter with a pained expression and started to object.
“I don’t mind,” said Manny the manny.
Sydney rolled her eyes and turned to Denis. “Scavenger hunts. Do you see what I mean about public cruises? I told you we should have taken the yacht.”
Denis turned to his young bride-to-be. “They do that sort of thing to entertain the kids on board. I think it’s nice. And anyway, Mother loves the Tiffany Star. We’re here for her.”
“I thought we were here for our wedding,” she said. “Thanks for taking my feelings into account.”
“But you’re here now,” Carleen the peacekeeper said. “And you’ll have a ball if you let yourself. Holly, darlin’, I’ll come to your lecture.”
“Me too, dear. I think anything to do with fashion is simply fabulous,” Lucille declared.
Nine waiters magically materialized at our table, all carrying covered plates on silver platters. Each waiter positioned himself behind someone’s chair and then, in perfect lockstep, whisked off the domed top, set the plate on the table, and stepped back, retreating into the buzz of the dining room. It was a gastronomic ballet.
“Bon appétit,” Aston said.
“Oh, waiter,” Sydney said, catching hers by the tail of his tux. “In the future, bring me quarter portions. I just want to taste.”
“Great idea,” Pops said, setting down his drink a bit too hard. “In the future, would you bring me double portions of what I order?”
“Pops,” I whispered.
“We don’t have to pay. It’s free,” he blurted.
“That’s not the point.”
“If it’s my weight you’re worried about, don’t. I’m working out. In fact, I’m meeting with Horace, my new trainer, tomorrow at ten,” Pops said. “You don’t mind if I miss your lecture,
