Semi-Charmed Life by Nora Zelevansky

Author:Nora Zelevansky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press

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VERUCA’S BIG LONDON PARTY FELL on the third day of the crew’s British foray and started off literally on the wrong note. The musical act, DJ Bangers & Mash, tended to work late and sleep even later and had been preemptively jolted awake by his wife, shouting about his housekeeping ineptitude. Particularly, she sniped, she was on strike from washing his dirty Marmite-crusted dishes, folding his knickers, and walking his “bloody” schnauzer. Thus, he arrived at the party location in a terrible mood, which managed to infect not only the technicians and party planners he abused but also the music itself once the festivities began. Each song ended with a nasty edge, which put the partygoers in argumentative, irritable, and shaky states, as if they’d forgotten to eat all day and were experiencing a collective blood sugar drop.

Beatrice was not immune to this contagious grumbling. Though she hadn’t gotten the free time she craved in Miami, Florida was still proving to be the “relaxing” portion of the trip, as their schedule got progressively more harried. She’d already been dragged from teas and luncheons at Harvey Nichols and Marylebone’s Patisserie Valerie (when all she wanted was curry!) to East End studio visits and Soho gallery parties. They wouldn’t let her stop at a Boots pharmacy for beauty products, a Lion candy bar, or even blackcurrant TUMS when she feigned a stomachache. It was as if she’d never left New York, accents notwithstanding. For Beatrice, the trip was a blur of cobblestone streets viewed from plane, Maybach, swanky penthouse, and hotel windows. Was she damned to spend the rest of her life nose pressed against windows like a poodle? Tonight, it took every ounce of self-control not to storm outside onto Jack the Ripper’s gritty streets just to get some space.

Rumor had it that Veruca was distantly related to the royal family, though she probably knew Harry from the party circuit. Either way, she was offered a special room at Kensington Palace for her art fair fête, which—along with an event space at the Tate—she politely declined. A dark after-hours speakeasy-reminiscent Soho club was much more exclusive, she assured a doubtful Kendra. The building was centuries old and formerly housed an overflow of prisoners from the Tower of London. But tonight the only thing behind bars would be cage dancers. “Quite clever, really,” noted the British society pages, well in advance.

Opting for this location meant hiring a curator from the British Museum to display work by Veruca’s favorite artists, which was “just beyond” tricky thanks to steep dungeon staircases leading down to a narrow, chilly space below that allowed for only limited movement.

For once, it seemed, Veruca had made an ill-fated decision: The artwork, though somehow levitating above podiums, left little room for party guests, now forced to close-talk with bitter black and tans on their breath and literally rub shoulders with one another (not a Londoner’s most favorite activity). There was nothing to do but drink heavily to numb the discomfort.

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