“I think I might be going to Deauville tonight, but call the office.” Barry got up from the table. “And tell Venice next year I’ll definitely be at her show.”

“She knows that, honey,” Clarice reassured him.

“I just can’t let the shit that happened with the Oscars last year happen to me again.”

“It won’t.” She tried to maintain his equilibrium.

Barry was still furious his movie didn’t win Best Picture, and he still blamed it on the Golden Globes. Those goddamn awards are the New Hampshire of the awards season. As the Globes went, so did the Oscars. He’d honestly rather be at the ballet with Clarice and their daughter, but they knew he was a terrific family man and they’d want him to get the goddamn Oscar.

“Babe, I’ll call you tonight either from Deauville or L.A. Fuck! I should quit and stay home and write goddamn cookbooks.”

As Barry walked out of the kitchen, Clarice’s teacup began shaking. For a very thin man with an overactive thyroid, Barry always upset the balance of the area around him when he walked.

Clarice thought the soloists at the Nutcracker benefit performance brought a little more spunk than usual to both the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier. She was delighted when ballet seemed like an activity that girls who preferred soccer could appreciate. For Clarice high culture was most valid when it had accessible educational components.

“Venice was just wonderful!” Pippa Rose waved to Clarice after the curtain call.

“The whole thing was terrific.” Clarice beamed in her red Chanel holiday suit. “And your daughter was outstanding. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better young dancer than Jennifer.”

Pippa gestured to meet her when they finished getting out of their rows. Every time Pippa came to the New York State Theater, she thought if she had been the decorator for this building, she would never have let Philip Johnson get away with the no-center-aisle decision.

Hands were waving, kisses were blowing, and eyes were winking as those audience members destined for the benefit luncheon headed up the staircase to the Grande Promenade. Pippa happily took Clarice’s arm.

“There’s something about that Christmas tree growing that always makes me weep,” she confided.

“Oh Barry cries, too,” Clarice added.

“Well if Barry cries then I feel like less of a sap.”

“He loves this benefit but he had to be away.”

“Joe isn’t here either,” Pippa consoled her without realizing she didn’t need any consolation. “He doesn’t really approve of Jennifer wanting to be a dancer. He says it’s good for poise, but frankly, she’d have a better life going to Wharton and becoming a patron. At least she’d know she’ll eat.”

“Dancers don’t really need to eat,” Clarice added.

“Yes, I guess that’s true.” Pippa laughed.

When the women arrived at the top of the stairs, they were delighted to see that the white marble promenade had been transformed into a holiday party wonderland. Everywhere you looked were round tables draped in crushed red satin and, in the center of each, giant nutcrackers surrounded by white and red amaryllis. Throughout the hall at least a thousand votive candles were shimmering.