New York City loved its parties. And the rich of the city loved to throw them, each soiree an excuse to flaunt their wealth while exhausting their staff. As an NYU student, I was all for a good party. As Nicole Brantley’s personal bitch, I was learning to hate them. Chanel’s birthday, I thought I’d be able to manage, had actually gotten excited by the thought, envisioning a party so perfectly executed that puppy attendees would leave with their minds permanently blown.
I forgot this was upper crust New York.
I forgot this was Nicole Brantley.
I forgot that I had absolutely no party experience in anything other than looking hot and slinging back expensive champagne.
But this was Chanel’s birthday party, and I had confidence on my side. So surely it would be fabulous. It had to be. All the best bitches would be there. No, literally. The Best Bitches. We’re talking top-notch AKC pedigree.
I fell down the rabbit hole, into the world of canine couture and pup-arazzi and tenderloin-topped cakes. I spent two hours on the phone with a bitchy assistant, trying to get Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (he’s a PUPPET in case you weren’t aware) to give me a firm RSVP. I sweated over an Anthony Rubio original for Chanel that arrived two sizes too big and two days late. And Nicole wasn’t helping.
“You know this is her big day,” Nicole said to me impatiently, as if I wasn’t putting Chanel’s interests first. “Did the Shankmans confirm? They have a Labradoodle that Chanel really got along well with. She’ll be crushed if he doesn’t attend.”
I looked up from my laptop and over at Chanel, who was licking her crotch with some serious focus, and tried to find a response that didn’t involve me tossing my laptop aside and screaming at the top of my lungs.
Now, with the party over, I’d come to grips with reality. I was not going to be the poster mother that I always planned on being. You know the type, moms who carried everything anyone needed, all fitting neatly in a designer purse. The ones who hosted sleepover parties with fifteen kids and whipped up a beautiful meal for unexpected guests without missing a beat. No, my future seemed more along the lines of throwing a TV dinner in the general direction of my kids before sulking off to my bedroom with a remote and Nutella for some “quiet time.”
The first party disaster came with our celebrity guest: Mavero. Mavero, the Australian terrier who appeared in all of the Dog Whisperer movies. Mavero, who performed in Kanye’s latest music video. Mavero, who Nicole saw on a morning show and decided must attend. Mavero, who charged eight thousand dollars for a public appearance. I mean, WTF? Eight thousand dollars for a dog’s two-hour appearance? His ridiculous fee aside, I also had to fax over proof of liability coverage. FAX. It took me fifteen minutes to figure out how to use the fax machine.
Mavero, it turned out, was an asshole.
First, he peed on Chanel’s custom doghouse. Lifted his leg up right during Nicole’s lengthy introduction of him and pissed all over the brownstone, designed to be a mini-replica of the Brantleys’. Nicole’s face went ashen; I went for Mavero’s contract. Turned out he was allowed to piss on anything he pleased.
Then, he bit the photographer. That got him put in his cage where he barked at the top of his doggie lungs until Nicole finally broke down and had his handler take him away. Nicole was still dismayed that Mavero didn’t get to stay and watch Chanel open her presents.
At the end of the party, Nicole stomped into my office and read me a long list of complaints. The fact that I didn’t roll my eyes once during her rant was a testament to my self-control.
She finally stopped, leaving in a blur of shimmer and highlights, my eyes glancing at the clock. Eleven PM. Just enough time to get to SoHo before it got too late. Benta’s company was having a party of their own, one that wouldn’t involve slobber and leg humping. At least, not from any dogs, though I couldn’t promise anything from the men who would be there. The matchmaking industry was a frisky one.
I grabbed my purse and keys, kissed an exhausted Chanel, and turned out the lights, slowly trudging down the stairs, my desire to escape not enough to counteract weak calves and blistered heels. If I ever won the lottery, my mansion would be one story or have one hell of an elevator system. Nicole had turned off their elevator for reasons of pure insanity, something about claustrophobia and maintenance costs. The woman dropped a small mortgage on her bottled water delivery but choked on things like valet fees.
I rounded the second floor landing and saw the front door open, Nicole standing in the doorway, her back to me, her voice quiet as she spoke to whomever stood before her. Something made me pause, one foot a step higher than the other, and I leaned on the bannister and tried to see more.
It was Paulo, his stance hard and unmoving, Nicole’s soft murmurs of the soothing variety. I watched as she reached out and stroked his face. This was bad; he shouldn’t be here, not when Clarke was home. Nicole was getting reckless. Though, from the glimpse I got of Paulo’s face, maybe he was the one getting reckless.
I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me, but I knew that smell, a mix of leather and spice, when it floated by me. He paused next to me on the step, a worried look on his face when he spoke my name.
“Chloe? Chloe, are you okay?”
I tried to move, tried to think, tried to do something, but I could only watch as Clarke’s gaze moved past me and down to the front door.
“Nicole?” he called, his steps easy and fluid as he jogged closer to his wife.
I watched Nicole’s hand push at Paulo’s chest, but it was too late.