dollars.’
‘John Lobb.’
‘John says you have to have these things. People notice.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Who knew men were such label whores?’
‘They can be worse than women.’ Gigi nodded.
‘I mean, bespoke cashmere? Have you ever heard of anything more pretentious in your life?’
We both snorted.
‘John is a little confounded by my thriftiness, but I just don’t see the point in blowing a thousand dollars on a purse that will be declared “out” on the pages of Harper’s Bazaar in three months. And besides, I feel like a bad feminist spending his money. When we lived in Chicago I had a job and if I wanted something, I’d use my own money.’
‘So get a job here.’
‘I know. I should. I’ve been meaning to start making some calls. But I can’t seem to motivate. Our couch is just too comfortable.’
‘Well, if you’re looking for some part-time work while you look for something permanent, I could use your help with a few catering events I have coming up. You could help me with advance prep, or with room décor if you don’t like kitchen work.’
‘Oh no, I love baking. I’ll do whatever you need.’
‘Can you work the events too? I have one coming up the first week after New Year’s. My friend is a contributing editor for House & Home and she’s hosting a party celebrating next month’s designer of the year issue. She’s a hedge fund wife, but one of the good ones. You’ll love Jill.’
‘Jill Lovern Tischman?’
‘You know her?’ Gigi asked.
I nodded and told her all about Caroline’s baby shower—the goody bags, the cakes, the mountain of presents Caroline received.
‘I heard that the surrogate wasn’t invited,’ she said.
I had assumed that whoever was carrying Caroline’s baby lived in Idaho or something and Caroline would be going there to retrieve her baby once it was born, but apparently the Reinhardts were putting the woman up in their West Village townhouse and had plans to keep her on as the child’s wet nurse once the baby was born. The day of Caroline’s shower she’d stayed home, but as Caroline had later boasted, she’d remembered to send the woman a piece of the Sylvia Weinstock cake home with her driver. As if it was so darn thoughtful of her to save her a slice of cake, and then not even personally deliver it.
I tossed my napkin on the table, and Gigi checked her watch, a white oversized one with a diamond bezel.
‘So can you help me for Jill’s event? The other wives will probably think it’s weird that you’re doing it, but I’ll tell them I begged you to pitch in,’ she said, standing up. ‘Do you think your husband will mind you spending an evening out with me?’
I raised my eyebrow at her. ‘Are you kidding? John’s never home before ten, most nights it’s eleven.’
‘Oh right. I forgot. You’re a hedge fund wife.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ I snorted.
Together we exited the restaurant, bundled up in our heavy coats, ready to face the inclement weather outside. It had begun to sleet, and the freezing pellets of rain struck down on us as soon as we set foot on the sidewalk.
As I bundled my coat against the precipitation, I received a text on my BlackBerry.
John: Fred and Caroline Reinhardt have invited us to Aspen for New Year’s. Please find appropriate housewarming gift (Budget: $3,000-$5,000). We’ll discuss wardrobe needs tonight. Love, me.
It took me half a dozen tries to get the right hostess gift for the Reinhardts. My first instinct was to buy a case of wine, since it was guaranteed not to go to waste, but John said my suggestion lacked ‘originality’ and ‘panache’, and that all the other ‘dolts’ in his office had already shipped crates of Château Margaux to the Reinhardts’ sprawling Aspen chalet weeks ago. So it was back to the drawing board and Madison Avenue for me, and after having several more of my ideas shot down because they were also too ‘pedestrian’ or ‘obvious’ we went over budget and settled on half a kilo of Royal Sevruga caviar ($6,000) and three black lacquer globe presentoirs (at $350 a pop).
Our invitation was for only three days, but we took twice as many bags. John had gone a little crazy with the ski gear and had bought two entirely new outfits for himself, another ski outfit for me, including a little fox fur hat that looked like something Ivana Trump would have worn in her 1980s heyday, as well as top-of-the-line skis, boots, and poles for the two of us. I ski, but I would hardly consider myself an enthusiast, so the cash outlay on all the paraphernalia that I knew I would be using at most once a year seemed completely ridiculous. But then again, so was spending six thousand dollars on half a kilo of fish eggs, so I kept my mouth shut. It was John’s money, after all.
As soon as we touched down in Aspen John received a text message from Fred saying that his chauffeur would be waiting outside of baggage claim to help us with our things and drive us to their home (in one of the three black Hummers they kept on hand for guests and staff to use). The Reinhardts’ home was located just north of town, on Red Mountain, which was apparently where the best properties were found. A Saudi prince owned the most impressive estate—its main house boasted fifteen bedrooms, a racquet ball court, and indoor swimming pool, and sat on ninety acres of closely guarded land—but there were others with values estimated at fifty million dollars and beyond. And bear in mind that these were homes that were used at most two to three times a year by the actual owners, and the rest of the year were tended to by armies of caretakers and staff who were under strict orders to keep everything ready in case the owners decided to make an impromptu stopover.
The Reinhardts’ mansion, or chalet, as Caroline liked to call it, was every bit as spectacular as I would have guessed it would be. The main house comprised of eight bedrooms, most of which had their own adjoining bathrooms, plus a screening room, full-size exercise room and Pilates studio, indoor pool and separate steam and sauna rooms for men and women. The great room, overlooking the city of Aspen, featured vaulted ceilings, a huge chandelier made of wood and real deer antlers, giant widows, hardwood floors, stone accent walls, and a double fireplace connecting the dining room and bar area. The room was also stuffed with exotic furniture—think zebra wood commodes and Biedermeier armoires and vitrines—and accessorized with fox fur and mink blankets, pewter lamps, and a huge ostrich-skin-covered ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. Our bedroom was similarly decorated with antique hunting prints, a stack of fur-trimmed cashmere blankets, and a real Tiffany lamp perched atop the demilune console.
By the time John and I were unpacked, and ready, and had transferred our hostess’s gift to the appropriate staff member (later that same housekeeper would hand me a handwritten thank you note from Caroline acknowledging her reception of the gift) we were instructed by the butler that the Reinhardts had headed over to the après ski at 39 Degrees, the luxe lounge at the Sky Hotel, a swank ninety-room mountain lodge, and wished for us to join them if we were so inclined.
One of the drivers—there were three on staff—whisked us up to the hotel and bar in question, and I swear, walking into that room, I had never seen so much mink in my life. Every single woman was blanketed in some form of animal pelt, and two of the toppers were gold furs made using a process pioneered by Fendi to meld real twenty-four-carat gold with fur via vacuum technology. Plus the jewelry! Diamonds glinting from every earlobe, wrist, and finger. I adjusted my J. Mendel hat (apparently still in fashion given the number of women wearing similar models) and grabbed John’s hand as we threaded through the crowd toward the Reinhardts’ table at the back of the lounge.
Caroline