Mauricio came back with my drink, and I sat alone, sipping it while listening to the sounds of a crooner coming out of hidden speakers. I flipped through Departures magazine until Preston came back in, a little glassy eyed but still pretty adorable. I wouldn’t dare say handsome, as he looked like he belonged in a dorm room rather than at a dinner party.
He started rearranging a silk scarf in different styles in front of a gilded mirror. “What do you think?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure it’s working. It’s more of what Barkley would wear.”
“You know what, you’re right. He tries to dress me up sometimes. He told me when I moved in that jeans were not allowed. That lasted like a day. How can I not wear jeans? That’s like asking someone not to breathe.”
“Jeans are kind of ubiquitous,” I agreed.
“Right? So this personal trainer is supposed to come, and a few of Barkley’s friends. Of course, they’ll probably hit on me. It’s so tired, these old queens with wandering hands.” He sighed wearily, throwing the scarf in a nearby closet.
“I can only imagine. How did you and Barkley meet?” I asked.
“On SCRUFF,” Preston said, as if that was totally normal, which it was, but I just couldn’t imagine joining one of those apps myself. “He picked me up in his vintage Rolls, and walked me into Minibar, that place that’s like, out of a Bond film. At dinner, he recited Shakespeare by heart. I didn’t understand it, but it was super romantic. Barkley can turn it on when he wants to, but as you know, there is baggage. Most of us have carry-ons, but he needs a U-Haul. Where the fuck is he by the way?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Let me go see. Can I get you anything else?”
“A side of Mauricio,” I said, but he was already out the door.
A few minutes later, Barkley and Preston came into the room, each carrying what looked like cosmopolitans in chilled martini glasses.
“So,” Barkley said, “I see you’ve met the missus.”
“Dream on,” Preston said. “I’m not your housewife.”
“Well, you do look smashing in an apron. Just an apron, that is.” Barkley smiled and sipped, proud of his comeback.
“Besides, you know we met at the dog park. Is your early dementia kicking in?”
I took a big sip of my drink and waited for something to happen.
Thankfully, Barkley suggested we go outside, onto the “lower patio” in the back. Must be nice to have your choice of patios. In New York, I only had one, also known as the “central fire escape.”
Not surprisingly, Barkley’s patio was right out of Better Homes & Gardens. Everything was done in soft, muted colors, all linen and wool—much more understated than the sitting room. I immediately felt more comfortable.
When we got settled, Preston pulled out his vape pen, and Barkley rolled his eyes. “Such an unattractive habit.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ve popped like ten lorazepams today, so get over it.”
I laughed, and Barkley looked a little betrayed. Preston blew out vapor dramatically and said, “Page, I’m dying to know. Have you seen Banana Republic again?”
“No, but you know the big guy with the retriever?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Well, he asked me to be his dog walker.”
They both looked at me like I may be certifiable and were considering uninviting me right then and there.
“Isn’t that hilarious? Me, a dog walker.”
They both laughed to fill the silence. I was trying to be myself, but I guess I didn’t know who that was anymore.
“I also met Nadine, with the teacup poodle. Do you know her?”
They both shook their heads.
“She’s a trip.”
Mauricio led in a fair-skinned, regal-looking man around Barkley’s age. He wore a Hawaiian shirt with several platinum (mixed with what looked like diamond) bracelets on his wrists.
“Ah, if it isn’t the King of Austria,” Barkley said. “Michael, you know Preston, and this is my latest conquest, Page, working the little black dress.”
I found myself blushing. Was anyone straight? Mauricio? Highly doubtful.
As if on cue, another man was led in who was, in fact, straight. At least it seemed like he was, but how can you really tell? Joseph, who Barkley introduced as his trainer, got closer and closer to me during the cocktail hour, and it made me a little uncomfortable. His teeth were blinding, and his eyes were huge. By the look of his legs, he could probably hike Kilimanjaro in an hour. He was very interested in me, probably because I was the only woman there. He asked where I lived, and I didn’t say with my big brother. Then he told me that I had nice skin, and I told him he did, too, and he smiled like he already knew that.
By the time we were moved into the dining room, I felt a little tipsy. I told myself to go easy on the wine, but it was so good, every sip a special gift. Joseph was next to me, and Michael was on the other side. I could see why Barkley called him “Michael of Austria.” He had an imperial tilt to his head and a striking confidence. From what Preston had told me in the hallway, his family owned all the Austrian media outlets, and his brother was running the business since his father had passed.
Michael had been “exiled” to the States because of his “lifestyle.”
The dinner was exceptional. Grilled salmon with crispy brussels sprouts and a butter lettuce salad with tangerine and goat cheese. During dessert (berries, foam, and a tiny cookie), Barkley started talking up his favorite play, Full Gallop, about former Vogue editor Diana Vreeland.
“I love red,” he said, doing what seemed to be a pretty spot-on impersonation of Diana. “It’s the great clarifier. Curiously, I loathe red with any orange in it.”
Everyone laughed, even Joseph, who clearly didn’t get it.
Mauricio came in with a tray of cappuccinos, and I could hear Sumner barking from whatever room he was confined to. Barkley went on to his impression of some singer who sounded like a baby, and the laughter continued. I popped the last berry into my mouth and thought, Where the hell am I? I hardly know any of these people, and I’m half-drunk sitting next to the King of Austria. One of the things I did notice, however, during the course of Barkley’s histrionics, was Preston. I could tell how much he idolized him, how his bitchy queen persona had left his face entirely and was replaced with a simple boy in love. It was sweet, until I realized that more likely it was a boy infatuated with cashmere and foam and microcookies.
It felt like school. We were all shifted to a different portion of the house for each part of the evening. We ended up in what was called the parlor, on white leather chairs adorned with silvery-blue pillows shaped like large tubes. Preston and Barkley started talking under their breath, and it was clear there was some sort of disagreement. They left, and so did Joseph the trainer, but not before giving me his card with a hand drawn face on the back, one eye blinking.
So it ended up being just me and the guy who everyone called “Michael of Austria.” I know it sounds absurd, but that’s how he was referred to and it somehow worked. I didn’t dare ask his last name. Mounted on the wall above his head was a sculpture by an artist Liv had represented in New York, Patrick Blaine. It was a face that was partly chewed off, as if a shark had taken a bite of it. Blaine was known for pushing the envelope and meshing genres. Michael of Austria saw that I was looking at it and said, with a thick accent and a deep voice, “It is a beautiful piece, no?”