Dinner on N Street
6:15 p.m.
For the past eight hours, Olivia Wyatt has been in fifth gear high-drama mode, busting her Pilates and yoga toned ass to pull off the impossible. Only now, with forty-five minutes left until the official VIP (Olivia prefers the term Very Important Prick) arrival, does she take a final, critical blue-eyed inventory of her frenetically neurotic efforts.
Flowers:
In the foyer, a white hydrangea bouquet decorates the Eaves console on the left; three tight white rose and lily of the valley arrangements adorn the dinner table...evenly centered and positioned exactly ten inches apart in their square, clear glass containers. (Olivia always preferred white flower arrangements. So fresh looking!) In the powder room, the aroma of hyacinth drowns out sneaky cigarette smoke - Olivia’s no smoking rule never seems to matter late at night when all house rules blur from chardonnay and whiskey overload. What else...what else? Oh, the gardenia tree next to the black iron doors leading to the garden. A last-minute order, but Potomac Petals always makes the impossible possible! Even the rare Honduran Valley mini orchid in that gorgeous shade of pumpkin orange was no issue for last year’s Halloween bash.
Flowers; check!
Dining room…
The custom Italian-designed clear acrylic table gleams, while the freshly buffed black and white tiled floor is beautifully obvious from underneath. (Ever since she saw the Mark Hotel lobby in NEW YORK CITY, she just had to have the same look!) Under perfectly remote-control dimmed LED lighting, the table settings glisten: simple and round white porcelain plates, sterling Christofle flatware and Baccarat crystal glasses, water and wine, all entirely spotless. (Olivia herself painstakingly buffed out all fingerprint smudges.) Edwin would ask why she would burden herself with such a chore? “Especially since we have staff, Olivia,” part of his arrogance Olivia hated. Pretentious motherfucker! Olivia pondered. Neighboring the plates are crisp, white Irish linen napkins, each folded origami-style. Olivia originally considered obelisk-shaped, mimicking the Washington Monument, then deemed that phallic and cliché, opting for more intricately sculpted camellia flowers - more wow factor and an indirect nod to Coco Chanel, Olivia’s icon of all icons. Such small details never fail to impress this crowd.
Table, check!
Now…the food...
Olivia quickly runs through the menu in her head: mini crepes with crème fraiche, cut chives and Beluga caviar, zucchini flowers fried in first press Italian olive oil, and parmesan crusted artichoke hearts; then the main course, and Edwin’s favorite; thinly sliced beef tenderloin, mushroom risotto with thinly shaved truffles and flat leaf Italian parsley to decorate and finish the presentation. Always to accompany is a simple green salad - dressed simply with fresh lemon juice, EVOO, and a generous dash of salt and freshly ground black pepper. Finally, affogato, the drink-dessert, satisfying both an after-dinner coffee and pining for something sweet desire. As an alternative, there is the luscious black forest cake, just in case some high-maintenance sugar addict is in demand of something more decadent.
Claudia, her live-in housekeeper and nanny, (and friend, if Olivia was being honest) spent hours racing around to buy the menu’s ingredients, but now, she seems unperturbed, shuffling around in the kitchen. Olivia can hear her, pans clanging as she sings along to Latin heartthrob, Juanes...” Y tu puedes decirle a todos, Que esta es tu canción, Y aunque suenen un poco simple Lo que te digo hoy……!” She worked for the former Italian Ambassador for years...that is, until the scandal – Four Seasons hotel, three escorts, two grams of coke – you get the picture. In fact, everyone did, as those paparazzi shots made the Washington Post’s Style Section. (DC’s version of NY Post’s Page 6.) The very second Maurizio hightailed it back to Roma, Olivia snapped Claudia right up. That was years ago, when Gwynnie, her precious baby girl, and the only good thing that came out of her marriage, was barely out of diapers. Edwin always cracked some sort of obnoxious joke right in front of dear Claudia, “What time are tacos?! Isn’t it Tuesday?” followed by that annoying and patronizing laugh of his. “Bwahahahha!!”
Dinner, check!
Wait, I’m forgetting something...
Oh, shit! Olivia speed walks to the living room, chest tightening with anxiety. She thinks, Where the fuck is my inhaler? An asthma attack never fails me when I’m stressed! Olivia takes a deep inhale from her Symbicort and slowly exhales as she closes her eyes. Counting back from five, she comes back to reality and realizes she forgot about the most important thing of all...Potomac Liquor was set to deliver, but… forget Gardenia trees, truffles and goddamn camellia flower shaped napkins – without booze, this party is DOA. She could already hear the neighborhood gossip and see the Georgetowner’s headline. “Wyatt Party Disaster! Has Olivia Lost It? Page 4 has this sizzling story!”
Eying the bar, Olivia sighs with relief. Phew! They are fully-stocked - Claudia must have signed for the order. It’s all there: vodka, scotch, tequila, vermouth, gin, rum, red and white wine, whisky and ten extra bottles of champagne. Olivia firmly believed there should always be champagne perfectly cooled at 52F degrees and ready to pour. Despite the local elite’s insistence, Olivia firmly believes that Veuve Clicquot is totally overrated. I love that incredible orange label and all but, truly, I prefer Robert Moncuit...it has an underground following...less mainstream – a case always in the wine cellar and six bottles cooling in the wine fridge. A seemingly useless device that becomes a staple, Olivia purchased the Auto-Chill from one of those gadgety, in-flight airline catalogs. (She has no recollection of buying it; probably happened sometime between cocktail number one, and the pre-flight 5mg. Xanax) In fact, without realizing it, her arm is already reaching out… I earned this; Olivia tells herself.
Olivia prefers a clear head when party prepping, but pops the cork anyway, deeming these extraordinary circumstances. She pours the bubbly into a Tiffany champagne flute – a wedding gift...gosh these things have lasted forever, she thinks – and tells herself it isn’t a problem. Sure, she’s found herself drinking more as of late, but comparable to what? This is D.C., after all, where alcohol is practically a 6th USDA food group. Libations make the capital go ‘round, as they say, and the city has 2,000 AA meetings a week to prove the fact.
Olivia takes a long gulp, body instantly warming, limbs loosening. Why am I being so negative? She asks herself, downing half the glass quickly. True, it was inconsiderate of Edwin, throwing this dinner party at her last minute, but there was a time when she would have relished the challenge. Olivia is a gifted hostess - that fact is widely acknowledged. Once, Olivia Wyatt was the new and improved Evangeline Bruce...DC’s most infamous hostess...only younger, sexier and with a way better wardrobe. What would Olivia do without Françoise in the Neiman’s designer salon? “Darleeng, zee perfect dresz juzt delivered in zee sztore. You must call me immediate, oui? I’m holding your zize. I juszt know you are going to love it, oui...it iz you!”
As a newlywed, Olivia threw herself fully into the planning of events, from cocktail parties to full-fledged blow-outs. To her, there were no dinner parties, there were “lifestyle experiences.” She’d spend days contemplating every detail, from the menu, to the lighting scheme, to even creating customized soundtracks for each unique occasion...sometimes La Boheme for peanuts and cocktails, Frank Sinatra for appetizers and Rod Stewart’s Da Ya Think I’m Sexy just to shake things up. She was fearless, always staying true to herself even amongst the vast resources, infinite options, large budgets and guests that often included her husband’s associates – men who ranged from charming rouges to snobbish, uptight douchebags. Still, despite the various downtown K Street reputations and plethora of Capitol Hill gossip, she refused to give in to preconceived notions, approaching each guest with an open mind and big, welcoming cashmere-enveloped arms.
It hadn’t been an easy transition, acclimating to Edwin’s First-Class world, but after all these years, Olivia had finally found a happy medium. Okay, maybe happy was the wrong word, but she fit in well enough, yet hadn’t totally surrendered herself to the DC ice queen society dark side. She’d never be one of those pinched-lip, judgmental bitches in predictable St. John’s tweed knits or the other “Preppy Handbook” lot. Olivia thought of herself as classic with a Pucci punk rock-edge, and could intelligently discuss a range of topics, from environmental issues to Maddow vs. Hannity debates, all while keeping true to herself. Olivia was a woman who laughed loud, dropped the f-bomb and wore a Swarovski crystalized skull and cross bone belt with her cocktail dress. Not pearls. If she ever did pull out her Mikimoto's, she added a chain or two, à la Coco, and her diamond safety pin earrings. Just another way to stay unique in a DC fishbowl of matchy-matchy, boring black and navy suits.
She entertained the same way.
For all the exuberant, enthusiastic planning, Olivia would let loose, burst to life and win over even the most difficult of guests...without even trying. Her unique charm and wit—her personal secret ingredients – never to be bought nor duplicated, were the real key. These qualities were the reasons why Edwin fell in love with Olivia - her valiant, non-apologetic spark. Just being herself is what made Olivia DC’s most interesting and recognized hostess.
Now, more than a decade later, something had changed…Olivia had a sneaking suspicion it just might be her. Perhaps it had happened in increments, or in a rush, but there it was, unmistakable. Olivia looks down at her glass, which is more than half-empty, the same way she had begun to view her life. I used to live for this shit, she thinks. Once Olivia was the beating fucking heart at the center of every social gathering. She drains the drink, remembering those days.
A few years into their marriage, they’d hosted a dinner party for Edwin’s newest clients and his first politically based campaign. That had been quite the night, Olivia thinks to herself. Edwin had been nervous, feeling out of his element – he could win over the most difficult of CEOs, charm the most jaded of high-profile personalities, but the White House crowd? They were a different beast. And even more, these were the conservative set – and not the fun kind, either. On the Pence-Reagan good times 1-10 fun scale, this bunch ranked lower towards the Mike and Karen’s snooze level two cookies-and-bible study than to Nancy and Ron’s whoopin’-it-up with celebrities on the California ranch level 10 blow-out. With Olivia’s help, by the end of the evening, not only was the uptight bunch undeniably trashed, but she had convinced an older, notoriously uptight, Jim Baker look-alike, Brooks Brothers black (brown before 6:00!) leather cap-toed Oxford wearing Congressman to play a game of charades.
“You know who you are?” The Congressman had said once the interlude came to an end, his face flushed with pleasure. “The girl in the movie. The one with the gloves and long cigarette...you know…the Hepburn girl?”
Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Olivia had said, delighted.
“Yes, exactly! That’s the one. Holly Golightly, that was her name. That’s you, Mrs. Wyatt. The Holly Golightly of Georgetown.” Then he’d reached for her hand, as gracefully as a young man, gently kissed it and looked into her eyes. The man didn’t know that he was talking about something else – freedom. Leaning into the present moment. In that split-second, as he smiled and looked into her eyes, she saw the sparkle of who he’d once been, long ago. Before his time in the Nixon administration, or at the golf outings with Bush One and Bush Two; before long days of babble in the halls of Washington and tedious lunches at The Palm on 19th Street. In the tiny flicker of a moment, she saw the decades younger man, the rowdy, rabble-rousing-Exeter-Yalie who charmed every co-ed in his wake.
What happened to me? thinks Olivia, refilling her flute. She glances up, catching sight of herself in the bar mirror. She narrows her eyes, taking in her tight navy sheath with skyscraper high front slit, wide, black leather laser-cut, Alaia belt, and Repetto Cendrillon black ballet flats. With her 5’9” stature and inherent conviction, Louboutins weren’t necessary. Time for the final and most important accent – she crosses to the table, finds her Chanel clutch and reaches inside. Back to the mirror, she uncaps the tube, twists and then slowly, with painstaking care, applies a coat of her favorite armor of all time. Pink lipstick, her signature. An Elsa Peretti sterling silver Bone cuff on her right wrist anchored the look.
The final step before any occasion, it fills her with a surge of confidence, adding that last touch before stepping into that world. Edwin’s world. Tonight, a subtle rose, but whether sunset blush or a fuchsia pop, it feels like protection against the world, adding that final boost of attitude and honorary don’t fuck with me silent shout out. The shade changed alongside her mood. And, sometimes, a shade even changed her mood. There. Olivia takes a step back and scrutinizes the final product. She looks elegant and polished. Hair, makeup, nails, skin, dress, shoes and her most favorite accessory; pink lipstick.
A wry chuckle. Olivia toasts her reflection.
Olivia dressed by instinct. In fact, she relied on instinct to steer her through life – on nights like this, outfit selection was critical. She would stand in her closet and look around. Slowly. Look and think – and wait to feel something. An inspiration from even one item; maybe a novel or seasonal piece...maybe a skirt, top, a jacket. She’d build her look, item by item, always by instinct, and knew what worked and what didn’t. Often enough, she would go to her accessories first. Jewelry, watches, bangles, shoes, belts, scarves, bags, necklaces, earrings. One item would dictate which one would come next.
Olivia could never quite understand why some of her friends just couldn’t put a plain white V-neck tee-shirt and a simple pair of plain blue jeans together. For them it was tortured misery to think about the challenge. To Olivia, it was fun. A game even. A time to color in her own unique canvas to show the world who she was.
Olivia quickly came back to reality and remembered why she even got dressed for the evening. She took another sip of champagne and refocused on her immediate to-do list.
If there were an Olympic category for faking it, Olivia would bring home the gold. She would plaster on a big smile, keep up a steady stream of small talk, and ask the right leading questions. And nod. A lot. She’d compliment the merry-go-round of Very Important Pricks, while secretly thinking the majority were narcissistic man-boys who equated their bloated portfolios to personal charisma. As for the women, she would exude equal warmth, though they seemed a rotating cast of dried-up housewives and DAR matriarchs. And then, of course, there were the botoxed, bleached out second housewives and secret inside the beltway wannabes obsessed with certain choice DC zip codes.
That was DC - reputation defined by the names you drop, where you work and where you went to school. And, maybe, the most important of all, were the numbers in your cell phone. It was all about image, and the Wyatt name could take you far. Smile and nod. Smile and nod. Ask a question here and there, look impressed. Throw out a reference – a name they might know, an exclusive event – to show you are on an equal playing field. Smile and nod some more. Et voila! You are officially someone worth knowing.
For the past several years, it had been the complete opposite. She’d done everything possible to avoid hosting even the smallest event. She faked being sick, faked girlfriend emergency dramas, a colonoscopy in the morning. An allergy attack or bad hair day. Any legit sounding justification.
She had officially entered the I really don’t give a crap about any of this pointless horseshit anymore, zone. Olivia paced and circled, inside her own home, waiting for the first guest to arrive.
