The doors open to let in the dozen or so journalists and photographers covering the event, and they immediately clump up by the entrance, jockeying for position and access. Claudia starts lining up glasses of the night’s signature cocktails along the bar, the last step to being ready for service. Tonight is something involving watermelon and basil with a little strawberry on a toothpick, very summery and refreshing but very alcoholic. “This weekend, you want to go to McCarren pool if it’s nice? We gotta make a plan how you’re gonna get up and stay up,” Claudia says as she nudges Evie affectionately.

“Only if we also plan how you’re going to ask for a raise,” Evie counters, watching the entertainment journalists flock towards a waiter carrying a plate of hors d’oeuvres. She wonders which of them hadn’t eaten that day; how many lived off canapés and cheap wine at the city’s endless round of night receptions and openings.

“Deal,” Claudia says. The string quartet begins to play, a signal that it’s almost go time. Claudia starts lining up coupe glasses and, without looking at Evie, says, “You ready?”

“Hit me,” Evie says as she grabs a champagne bottle and strips it of its foil and cage. The catering company Claudia works for sells itself on personalized service, and part of that is the bar staff memorizing each VIP’s face, name, and drink preference. Claudia’s last-minute pop quiz on those preferences as the doors open is as much a tradition for the two of them at fancy events as Evie slicing her thumb on the lemon zester or Claudia convincing unsuspecting young men to order Flaming Lamborghinis.

Black-clad security guards open the doors officially and the party guests begin to filter in. Camera flashes roll through the enormous space like sheet lightning as each couple poses for the scrum of photographers.

“Peter Pickford,” Claudia says, as a short, deeply tanned man in a velvet tuxedo strolls in, arm in arm with a tall, nervous-looking thoroughbred of a woman, whose white silk dress matches his hair. She’s half his age, and grips a sparkly clutch bag like it contains the secrets of the universe.

***

“Paterfamilias,” Evie recites. “Started the empire selling ties out of the back of a secondhand Rolls. Manhattan, Maker’s, extra cherry. His wife only drinks diet ginger ale but she carries a fifth of vodka in her bag.”

“Good,” Claudia says. “An ex-cop from New Jersey with a bad leather jacket and a polo shirt buttoned all the way up.”

“One, I told you I don’t want to talk about my interview,” Evie groans, “and two, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“You’re not talking about your interview. I’m talking about your interview, and you’re just telling me when I’m right,” says Claudia, smugly. “Leah Pickford.”

“The middle daughter; it’s her engagement party.” Evie pauses for a moment to watch Leah do her twirl for the photographers. She’s in a long, figure-hugging sequined dress that, combined with her artfully tousled streaked blonde hair, is a little too Malibu Barbie Goes To The Oscars for Evie’s taste, but it serves its purpose in making her the center of attention. Her fiancé is short, a little stout, and rumpled in his white tie and tails, and he looks up at her with utter adoration. Even Evie’s blackened heart melts at his expression, and she silently wishes them happiness.

Claudia elbows her.

“Uh, sorry. Leah runs the perfume business. Krug,” Evie carries on. “With Florian, old German family, has a title, works for some big hedge fund. Also Krug.”

People are starting to drift towards the bar. Claudia busies herself adding the basil leaves and strawberries to another tray of the signature cocktail. “Correct,” she says. “A tall British public school boy with floppy hair and dandruff and no lips but you still would.”

“Bzzt,” Evie says. “Also, ew.”

“Fuck!” Claudia exclaims. “Okay, we got incoming. The rest of the Pickford kids.” She hands Evie a bottle of Krug to uncork, and grabs another one herself.

“Eldest daughter runs the cosmetics division and is married to a Russian oligarch, uh…” Evie twists, and the champagne cork comes off into her hand with a muffled pop. She picks out the couple, she in a fluttery, printed maxi dress, with her dark hair in an updo and her face immaculately made up, and him tall and barrel-chested, all in black. The couple exchange a private little smile, and he gives her a little silent-comedy eye roll, here we go again, that makes her wrinkle her nose in amusement. She bumps his shoulder and their fingers tangle together, and Evie feels suddenly, terribly lonely.

“Earth to Evie?” Claudia prompts.

“Victoria and Slava. Mojito for her, Armagnac for him. Youngest daughter, Erin, runs the shoe division. Vodka cranberry. She hangs out with Greg Pickford, eldest, only son. Vodka martini, but no actual martini in it. So just a polite way to ask for a glass of vodka, really. Married to Stewart Jones, the label’s womenswear designer, who is actually British, unlike your terrible guess.”

Claudia rolls her eyes as, beyond her, Erin Pickford air-kisses her big brother, the heir apparent. Her painfully thin body is tightly wrapped in an aggressively modernist short beige dress. When she laughs, loud and toothy, at something he says, her veneers are so white they’re virtually blue. Greg Pickford is in an off-white tuxedo that complements his ruddy tan, with leonine swept-back brown hair peppered with strands of grey. He’s almost good-looking; all the individual elements of handsome are there but somehow they fail to come together into an attractive whole. His jawline, objectively fine on its own, comes off in context as heavy, rather than sharp; the same with his lips, whose thickness errs towards the brutish rather than the erotic. His gestures are short and harsh and project a certain insecure power, the kind that needs to be constantly shown off to ensure it remains intact. A signet ring on the pinkie of his right hand catches in the light, and it calls to mind an article Evie once read about the Pickfords. Quite a thing, she thinks to herself, for a man to flaunt the coat of arms his family had bought only a decade before.

“Ugh, okay. Last guess,” Claudia says, keeping an eye on the guests, who barely acknowledge her as they grab either a pink cocktail or a glass of champagne off the bar. “An ex-skip tracer, with an undercut and a thing for Puerto Rican femmes. Basically Lucy Lawless but twenty years younger and butch.”

“I feel like I’ve just had this weird glimpse into your libido, but no,” Evie says.

“Look, a gayelle can dream. Tell—”

“Um, pardon me?” says a hesitant male voice, and Evie shakes her head, returning to earth. In front of her is Greg’s husband, Stewart, the fashion designer, who is delicate and blond and has a sweet smile and the most adorable pair of thick-framed hipster glasses Evie has ever seen. Stewart is wearing a single-breasted, high-necked tuxedo in a dark red velvet, embroidered with a riot of flowers, and a white shirt, also high-necked, with thick French cuffs. It’s fun and quirky and suits him, and is so different from the more generic haute-preppy style of the rest of the family.

“Hi, sorry, Mr Pickford-Jones, what can I get you?” Evie says, reaching for the Laphroaig. “Your usual?”

“I’m wondering what those are,” says the man, indicating the specialty cocktails. Evie can see a hint of multicolored ink at his wrist, peeking out from under the formal white cuff of his shirt.

“I’m not a hundred per cent sure what’s in them?” Evie says. “I just know they taste like strawberry-basil gelato and if you have three of them in a row you will feel no pain for the rest of the night. And also might pass out.”

“Fabulous,” Stewart smiles at her. “I’ll take four.” As he reaches for the drinks, his glasses slip down his nose and Evie glimpses a heavy smudge of concealer on his cheekbone. She’d assume it was to hide exhaustion, but… it’s only under one eye.