Page 76 of The Price of Scandal
“Hello. We must have beat you here. We managed to make it in record time,” Emily said, leaning in to kiss her mother on the cheek. It was a greeting designed for cameras.
“Don’t be silly, darling. Arriving too early makes one look desperate,” Venice trilled.
Emily looked as though she were about to break her mother’s nose.
As a precaution, I took her hand and squeezed.
She bared her teeth in what might have passed for a smile. If the individual were stupid. And inebriated. Or face blind.
I understood women like Venice Stanton. They could both fiercely love their daughters and still feel as though they were in direct competition.
“Hey there, slugger,” Byron said, grazing a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “Price,” he said with a brisk nod.
“Derek.” Venice smoothed the sharp edges from her tone and looked me up and down. “How lovely to finally meet a man who understands just how important perception is.” It was a compliment directed at me and a jab at the rest of her family.
She offered her hand, knuckles up. Dutifully, I kissed it, aware of the flash of a photographer’s camera.
“This is ridiculous,” I heard Emily growl next to me.
“Oh, there’s Bethenny,” Venice said, patting her perfect coif as she side-eyed her husband’s ex-wife from several yards away.
Bethenny Stanton—she’d kept the last name in what I could only assume was a solid “fuck you” to Venice who had tempted Byron out of his wedding vows and into her bed—had made shrewd investments with her prenup money and now headed the board of two charities. Where Venice was tanned and blonde, Bethenny was a lovely mix of Vietnamese and Welsh backgrounds.
She approached in a shimmery, simple column of gray. Her dark hair was cut with razor-like precision to her shoulders. Her hands were ringless. The only adornment she wore was a pair of chandelier earrings that glistened like her dress.
“Is that one of thosenewdesigners?” Venice said the word “new” as if it were lemon juice on her tongue.
“Of course,” Bethenny said, leaning in for a more sincere hug from Emily. “I enjoy supporting new artists wherever I find them.”
Venice pursed her lips and scrambled for her next match point.
“Emily, you look stunning as always. What is your secret?” Bethenny asked, giving her an affectionate squeeze.
“Why, she uses her own products religiously,” Venice said, steering the conversation back toward something winnable. “Of course, it’s unfortunate poor Emily didn’t inherit my side’s genes.”
“Bethenny, it’s wonderful to see you. Derek, how about a drink?” Emily offered suddenly. She squeezed my hand in an S-O-S.
“You read my mind.”
“Oh, darling, first we need a picture,” Venice insisted.
She waved a photographer over and positioned herself between her husband and me. Emily and Bethenny were pushed to the outskirts.
“Mrs. Stanton, look this way,” the photographer coaxed.
“I am, darling,” Venice trilled.
“I meant the other Mrs. Stanton,” he said.
If looks could kill, the photographer would have been impaled on one of the skewers of shrimp that were being passed around.
“There’s always plenty of room for more Mrs. Stantons in the world,” Bethenny said lightly.
Emily coughed to cover a laugh, and we all smiled big, phony smiles for the camera.
“How about that drink, Price,” Emily said when it was over.
“How about several?”
