“Thank you,” Gina says. Alice can tell she is forcing herself to smile. Her eyes are still on Bobby.
“Come on, let’s check out the view,” Alice says.
She leads them closer to the wraparound glass windows, where they both take in the city’s sprawling buildings, the Hudson River, and the Upper West Side.
Gina is still nursing her Virgin Mary. Alice could go for another Bloody Mary, extra bloody. How is Gina able to get through the evening sober?
“Help me settle a bet I’ve made with myself,” Alice begins. “Have you ever had anything to drink? Alcoholic, I mean.”
Gina blushes. “Once, in college.”
“Bad experience?”
“Bittersweet.”
Alice turns around to face the ballroom again. She is about to ask for details when she spots Nick walking in their direction, a bereaved look in his eyes.
“I need to talk to you,” he says to Gina.
Alice blinks rapidly, confusion hitting her like a wave. Only then does she realize it’s not Nick, but Bobby. Their identical tuxedos make it impossible for anyone to tell them apart.
“I thought you were Nick,” she catches herself saying.
But they’re not paying attention to her.
Bobby escorts Gina to a secluded spot in the corner of the ballroom. His neck is so stiff, Alice would be able to crack an egg on it. Alice watches them raptly. Never before has she wished so intensely that she could read lips. But before she can think of a way to eavesdrop on their conversation, Nick is by her side.
“It’s a shitstorm,” he whispers urgently.
Alice looks at Nick. “What is?”
“Eva Stone is pregnant.”
Interview with Abigail Swallow
Member of the Alma Social Club—Second Generation. Enrolled in 2001
Of course she got knocked up!
A twenty-something woman involved with an older, married man? You could see it coming from a mile away.
If you ask me, it was no accident.
Twenty-One
Malaika
Sunday, September 29th
Malaika is settled in a lawn chair in Calan’s front yard, adding up numbers in her phone’s calculator. The sun is high in the sky and there’s a pleasant breeze in the air. Allegra is playing in the pumpkin patch off the garden, Calan is seated next to her, his nose buried in a graphic novel. Malaika should be relaxing, too. Instead, she’s feeling tense, hamstrung. She wants to break her phone. She blows a hair out of her nose, letting out an involuntary grunt. From the corner of her eye, she feels Calan glancing at her, concern written all over his face.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, crossing her legs. She is not fine.
“Are you still trying to make it work?” Calan asks, swiveling toward her.
“Yeah.” Malaika nods.
Calan casts a sympathetic look in her direction. “There’s always next year’s show.”
But that’s not true. Calan is smart for a fourteen-year-old, but he’s still too young to understand something Malaika’s mom has repeated to her since she was little: most chances don’t come around a second time.
What happened yesterday at the Pink October Fundraiser had felt like fate.
It all began when Malaika ordered a martini at the open bar (apparently no one asked for ID at these events).
“Gin, bone dry, three olives. Ice on the side,” Malaika had said.
“That’s my exact order,” said an unfamiliar voice behind her.
Malaika turned around to see a much older, silver-haired woman with perfect eyebrows, high cheekbones, and radiant skin. She was wearing a voguish A-line black gown, paired with the biggest pink diamond earrings Malaika had ever seen—including in magazines and movies.
“You obviously have good taste,” Malaika said with a playful laugh. She asked the bartender to prepare two martinis and turned back to the mysterious, elegant woman.
“I like your dress,” the woman had said. “Valentino?”
“Thank you.” Malaika had smiled proudly. “I made it myself.”
It was the only formal evening gown she had brought with her from Basel, an off-the-shoulder mermaid gown in light pink. She had almost left it behind, but Verena had convinced her that such an exquisite dress would be a magnet for good things.
The woman’s surprise was palpable. “Not a lot of young women do that nowadays.”
“I want to be a designer.” Malaika had blushed and held out her hand. “I’m Malaika, by the way. I work for the Dewars.”
The woman gave Malaika a knowing smile. “I’m Giovanna Marquetto.”
Malaika felt her jaw go slack. “The Giovanna Marquetto?” It couldn’t be. Giovanna was a legend in the fashion world. Former editor-in-chief of Harper’s Bazaar. Close friends with Anna Wintour. Founder of Just Landed, the fashion show that was featured in Project Runway.
Giovanna had nodded, graciously.
“Oh, God.” Malaika covered her mouth. “I just told Giovanna Marquetto I want to be a designer.” In that moment, she’d felt both thrilled and embarrassed. She wanted nothing more than to call her mom.
Giovanna had tilted her head back ever so slightly and laughed. “Nothing wrong with that, my dear. Do you have a portfolio?”
Malaika had nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“I organize a fashion show for aspiring designers in the spring. All slots were full, but one just fell through. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to come up with a full line in time, but if you do, and if it’s as beautiful as that dress, I’d consider showcasing your creations.” Giovanna had handed Malaika her card.
Malaika had experienced an adrenaline rush like no other. She had daydreamed of being discovered countless times, but never had she imagined that her first big break would come from Giovanna Marquetto herself. She had spent the rest of the Pink October Fundraiser dancing on top of a cloud, silently thanking the universe for her good fortune.
She began sketching as soon as she got home, unable to sleep. She only stopped to look up last year’s competitors, and that’s when she realized how massive
