The St James Affair. Susan Wiggs

      She was actually a little disappointed in herself. Where were the pain, the trauma, the weeping and the wailing? The wallowing? Wasn’t this supposed to be a personal train wreck rather than the emotional equivalent of a broken nail? At least if she wept and carried on, even for a few minutes, it would mean that she hadn’t wasted the past six months dating a guy she didn’t care about. But she had no urge to cry and carry on. She felt like getting some work done.

      Although it was still early, a good crowd had gathered to fuel themselves for the last day of shopping and tonight’s round of parties. Elaine greeted, waved and air-kissed her way across the room, her practiced smile untroubled by Byron’s betrayal. She loved this crowd of socialites and actors and trendsetters, and they loved her. She was in her element here, in the spotlight as she made her way to meet with her partners, who also happened to be her best friends.

      Yet Elaine had a problem. And it had nothing to do with her recent, very public conversation with Byron.

      She wasn’t sure why it happened, but sometimes, at the least convenient of moments, she felt something a person in her position wasn’t ever supposed to feel. Loneliness.

      It was absurd, given the full, busy life she led, but she couldn’t help it. No matter how much she tried to deny the truth, she often found herself gripped by a sense of futility and the bone-deep ache of emptiness.

      That emptiness was the enemy. She battled it with direct action. Land that account, grab that media spot, get out there in the glitzy world of fashion and entertainment and make a name for yourself. A willful, determined nature had compelled her to turn herself, in just a few short years, into one of the busiest, most influential publicists in the city.

      Bolstering herself with the thought, she strode across the bar to the high-backed booth where her friends waited, nursing Seven-and-Skyy cocktails and chattering at warp speed.

      “There you are, Elaine.” Melanie paddled her hand in the air. “You’re late.”

      “Sorry.” Elaine slid into the horseshoe-shaped booth next to Bobbi, who was not just her best friend, but her very best friend. “I had a lot of calls to make from the office.” She felt mildly annoyed at her partners. Just because it was Christmas, they thought they could take time off and neglect important business. They were supposed to know better. Public relations opportunities didn’t disappear just because the calendar declared a holiday. In fact, that was even more reason to get busy.

      Larry the elf was dead wrong. The magic of the season wasn’t the spirit of giving. It was that Christmas added an extra media hook to their press releases.

      Since it was past noon, she ordered a kir royale, slipped her purse strap off her shoulder and made a conscious effort to smile. Jenny P (her last name was Pinkwater but she’d dropped it long ago) looked perfect and polished in Kajal lipstick, black merino and knee-high suede boots. Melanie Benz, affectionately known as Bitchcakes by her adoring clients, laid out her Day Timer and Palm Pilot on the table. She was chopstick-thin. Her white-blond hair was spiked, her eyebrows pared into arches of perpetual surprise. Bobbi, graced with the looks of a supermodel, was a walking billboard for their clients in a T. Gallagher sweater and leather skirt, Chez Moi makeup and a hairstyle by Iago.

      Elaine had handpicked Bobbi, a nobody from a North Carolina mill town looking to break into show business or modeling. Elaine and her partners had other plans. Through the magic of their power over the press, they turned Bobbi into the city’s latest girl-about-town. They gave her the right look, posed her with the right stars and socialites, dropped her name in the right ears. And it had worked. She appeared in all the magazines that mattered—W, Vogue and Quest. Within days, the phone had begun to ring, invitations rolled in. Within weeks, Cosmo was calling to get her take on the best spot-reducing exercise for summer. Bobbi’s launch was a ringing success.

      There was an unexpected bonus in Elaine’s project to create a media darling. As bubbly and refreshing as a split of Moёt, Bobbi had become her best friend and confidant, the sister she’d never had. She was someone to share secrets and dreams with, someone to whom Elaine might even dare to admit that breaking up with Byron didn’t actually hurt, but had frightened her by making her doubt her ability to sustain any sort of relationship.

      No. She wouldn’t go that far. Even her soul sister would not be privy to that fact.

      Tonight Bobbi would play a key part in moving their firm up the food chain. It was going to be her job to beguile the mysterious and ambitious Axel, a hip Swiss parfumier they were trying to lure as a client. Everything important rode on landing this account. Axel would be proof at last to her parents that she was capable of doing something that mattered, of making a life for herself and standing on her own two feet. They’d always believed she was dabbling, their Upper East Side princess, playing at being a publicist to pass the time until she settled down and married someone with the right credentials, someone like Byron Witherspoon.

      Now Elaine needed Axel more than ever. Acquiring the business of the Swiss billionaire would lessen the humiliation and soften the betrayal of losing Byron.

      “If we manage to sign him, he’ll open the door to major accounts in Europe,” Elaine said as they went over the final details of tonight’s event, known for decades in the society pages as the St. James affair. Each year, as her grandparents had before them, her parents invited everyone who was anyone to their annual Christmas Eve bash. Unlike past years, however, this time they’d allowed Elaine’s firm to handle the planning. She didn’t want to screw up.

      “What’s he like?” asked Bobbi. “I’m ninety-seven-percent sure I’ve never done it with a billionaire.”

      “He’s perfect.”

      “What, you’ve done it with him?” asked Mel.

      “Of course not. But Axel and I go way back. Boarding school days, actually. Looks that good should be banned from boarding school. You’ll see.” Elaine felt a surge of ambition. Playing the power matching game and teaching someone else the ropes were what she did best. She never stopped playing or thinking of the next move. It was what kept her going, how she made sense of the world.

      Melanie and Jenny put their heads together like a couple of battle commanders, mapping out a seating strategy for the party.

      “I guess I’ll find out tonight.” Bobbi lowered her voice. “Um, Elaine … do you think I could get a teeny weeny advance on my check? I’m a little strapped.”

      Elaine gritted her teeth. “Your advances are already taking you into the summer,” she said.

      “I know, but it’s so expensive to keep up this lifestyle. Everything just piles up. My credit cards are totally maxed out. Tomorrow’s Christmas, Elaine. What do you say, honey?”

      She forced her jaw to relax. Honestly, some people had no self-control or work ethic. “Stop by the office in the morning and I’ll write you a check.”

      “Actually, I wasn’t planning on coming in tomorrow.”

      “It’s our busiest time of year, Bobbi.”

      “It’s Christmas.”

      “I rest my case. Busy.” Elaine took a gulp of her drink.

      “It’s only once a year.” Bobbi’s tone wheedled. “I was hoping to fly home to see my family. My sister Jimmi just had another baby. Oh, Elaine. What could be sweeter than a baby at Christmas?”

      “A contract with a Swiss billionaire,” Jenny said.

      Melanie ran a shiny-tipped finger down a list in her planner. “By the way, Elaine, your mom’s a peach to work with.”

      Elaine forced a smile over the rim of her glass. “Isn’t she just?” In fact, Freddie St. James had given only the most grudging approval to Elaine’s list of suggestions. Despite her skepticism of the edgy menu items and trendy guest list, her appreciation of Elaine’s handling of the press had persuaded her.

      To Freddie, the only thing more important than putting