Blair’s mother was famous for her dinner parties, and this was the first since her infamous divorce. The Waldorf penthouse had been expensively redecorated that summer in bruised reds and molten browns, and it was full of impressive antique and artwork cleverly scavenged by her decorator from the estates of recently deceased art collectors before they went to auction. In the center of the dining room table was an enormous silver bowl full of white lilies, petrified scarab beetles, and desiccated pussy willows. Gold-leafed place cards lay on every red-lacquered plate. In the kitchen, Myrtle, the cook, was whisper-shouting Ozzy Osbourne songs to the soufflé, and the sloppy Irish maid, Esther, hadn’t dropped her famous blood pudding and Ritz cracker canapés down anyone’s dress yet, thank goodness.