Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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As we enter the house, the first thing that catches my eye is the dramatic black marble floors and walls painted in a shimmering crimson hue of the grand foyer. The space is filled with priceless antiques and art- fantastical Claude Lalanne bronze furniture and oil paintings by famous artists on every wall. I recognize some of them. Renoir. Sargent. Picasso. A giant stone lion stands in one corner. Someone has put a fur hat on its head.
Maids in classic French uniforms are stationed on each side of the entrance silently. The one next to a circular stone table clustered with pots of enormous jubilee roses bows ceremoniously to me. "May I take your coat, miss?"
Orson could sense my trepidation and reassure me by nodding at the maid. He helps me take off my coat, hand it to the maid and place his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the foyer.
"The party's just starting in the living room," Callum informs me as we climb the carpeted stairs, following the murmur of party chatter and piano keys from above. When we reach the landing of the second floor, I feel like I've been sucker-punched in the gut. I feel like I've been transported into a different era- a grand lounge of a Roaring 20s summer house of a rich white businessman in Istanbul.
The modestly dubbed "Living Room" is an eighty-foot long gallery that runs along the entire northern end of the house. Luxurious dark red curtains pair well with the art deco divans and the blood orange ottomans mixed in with the small, elegantly sculpted topiaries and the sleek black and white Annie Leibovitz photographs of the Calloways lining the silver- and lapis lazuli–filigreed walls. I notice that one of the photos feature Carmen and Orson as kids, in tennis whites—the two so preposterously stylish, so monied-lush they could have been a frame from a Hitchcock movie. I stare at the photo with a funny feeling in my stomach for a moment. Even with a brief glance, I could tell that it's them in one of the photos. It's so obvious it was them; from the tall patrician features to the regal stature, from Orson's piercing blue eyes that look years old despite his child frame to Carmen's long, luscious mane of brown hair and coltish ballerina figure.
At the far end, a young man in a tuxedo plays on the Bösendorfer grand piano, the twinking melody accompanying the glamorous guests mingling across the room, lounging on the silk ottomans or chaise lounges as a retinue of white-gloved servants in black suits circulate with trays of appetisers. My eyes are peeled at the illustrious gathering of people invited to Calloway Manor, attaching faces to names of great private fortunes from around the world: Persian Gulf oil money, Greek shipping lords, Italian textile billionaires, Spanish banking families, American tobacco magnates, Japanese industrial tycoons, Hong Kong real estate moguls. Among the hundred and fifty guests invited, I recognize the scions of royal families from Egypt, Greece, Yugoslavia, Italy and Britain, along with the heirs of European and American fortunes, my eyes ticking familiar names that are the foundations of wealth (Rothschild, Botin, Niarchos, Benetton, Duke, du Pont, Rockefeller).
I feel severely underdressed in my cashmere sweater and leather pants.
"Orson, you're here!" An excited voice pokes out from the cloud of laughter. An airy sigh floats behind it, the hard edges of his name all smoothed out.
