The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney Read Free Book Online Page B

pecky cypress, and Annette, the very soigné and beautiful hostess, a dear and empathetic friend, sees me right away and is just the same as she always is with me.
    â€œIt must be horrible to go through what’s been happening to you,” she says, handing me a flute of champagne, the first drink I’ve had since December 11, MF night.
    â€œThere are some people here you don’t know,” she says. “Come over and meet them.” She steers me to a small group of guests who are laughing and sipping their icy champagne. As she’s making the introductions, one of the women gives me the once-over, checking me out from my white Chanel ballet flats and J12 watch to my pearl earrings to my Kyleat-Oscar-Blandi blond highlights. This is nothing new or Madoff-induced. Everybody knows that women check one another out all the time. Someone else in the group says, “Oh my god, you are the person that writes those blogs. A friend of mine e-mailed me one and I loved it.” I acknowledge the nice words. They all want to hear about Madoff and how I knew him.
    â€œNever met him,” I explain, “but there are a ton of people here on the island who have lost huge fortunes with him.” Of course, this group knows the Madoff story only too well, but I want to get the spotlight off me. I’m grateful when I hear a man who’s holding a double shot glass of what appears to bestraight vodka or gin say, “My wife and I had a lot of money with that bastard.”
    The group turns to him and starts pounding him with questions, and I’m able to slide away to talk with a couple of friends who’ve just arrived.
    The butler whispers to our hostess that lunch is served. “It’s buffet style,” Annette says, “but look for your place cards so you know where you’re sitting.”
    I’m situated next to the shot-glass man who has been Madoff’d, but now he says, “Not for so much money.” He owns several houses and a “boat,” which, down here, probably means a major yacht. No mention is made of having to sell any of the properties. Money is so relative, I think. I’ve got it easy compared to some people, and he has it easy compared to me. But I don’t have time to sink further into these thoughts because my friend Joe, the host, who’s on my other side, is so charming and funny. He’s a great raconteur. It’s pure pleasure to sit with another glass of champagne and listen. When everyone else is engrossed in conversations, Joe says quietly to me, “I know you’ll be okay but if you ever need anything, just remember I’m a phone call away.”
    I’m overwhelmed by his words. All I can find to say is “I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” and I lift my glass to him.
    I realize I’m having a great time. The Virginia Christmas ham is outrageously delicious, ditto the dripping-butter mac and cheese, the crisp haricots vert, the mâche salad, and the plethora of spectacular desserts. I take two helpings ofeverything, an unembarrassed three of the brandy-soaked plum pudding. For a minute I step outside myself and watch. I don’t seem to have changed that much. I talk, I laugh, I listen. I’ve regaled my table with what it’s like to write a controversial, highly personal blog, I’ve admitted some of my fears to my host but basically I’m just being me, broke, and having a good time with friends on a sun-washed Christmas Day. Until I wake up the next day at four a.m.

CHAPTER 6
Urgency at All Costs!
    I can’t remember how long I saved and went lunchless to buy an Hermès bag. It was the seventies and an Hermès Kelly cost about six or seven hundred dollars, which was almost a month’s salary, but to climb the Vogue editorial ladder the bag was a necessity. And at Vogue , competition was exceedingly infectious; ascending the masthead quickly became an