Lies and Weddings(59)
“A secret palace!” Rufus exclaimed in awe.
“In Marrakech, there are secret palaces everywhere, but this is the one that started it all. This is the masterpiece of Monsieur Bill Willis,”[*2] the host explained as he ushered them down the steps into the courtyard, where wedding guests dressed in posh-hippie costumes sat at tables around the pool watching a troupe of Gnawa musicians perform.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was a fancy-dress party?” Rufus said to his aunt, suddenly feeling out of place in his white linen suit.
“We are in costume. I’m channeling Loulou de la Falaise, and you’re my Yves.”
Before Rufus could ask his aunt who Yves was, a grande dame in a turquoise and gold caftan with iridescent eye shadow matching her huge aquamarines pounced on them.
“Rosiiiiiii! I was about to send a search party for ya!” the woman said in her distinctive Queenslander accent.
“Carolyne, I’m sorry we’re so late. We came straight from the airport,” Rosina apologized.
“I don’t believe a damn word you say! Did you have a glam team on your jet? That jumpsuit looks fantabulous! Vintage Saint Laurent, ness pah? And those pearls, fuckin’ hell, what monstrous clams did you rob?”
“Haha, no clams were robbed.”
“Where did you steal this one from? Thunder from Down Under?” Carolyne (C&K Townsville/St. Hilda’s/University of Queensland) said, scanning Rufus up and down.
“This is my nephew Rufus.”
“Uh-huh. I wish we all had nephews who could accompany us for a long weekend in Morocco.”
Rosina slapped her friend’s arm playfully. “Stop it, he really is my nephew.”
“Whatever you say, darl. Nephew, you’re at table thirteen. Rosina, you’re with us, of course,” Carolyne said, steering her to the table of honor by the center of the courtyard. Rufus was escorted to an alcove where other guests were already tucking into the lavish banquet. He was delighted to see John Grey, a fellow Old Radleian, seated at his table. At least there was one person he knew. Rufus took his seat and proceeded to sample the mouthwatering array of meze and flatbreads in front of him.
Taking in the conversations around the table, Rufus quickly realized that he was among a crowd unlike any he had ever encountered. Though he had grown up cosseted in extreme privilege, his friends by and large came from families that had already been in possession of their country houses or companies or countries for many generations and were for the most part a decidedly low-key and unambitious lot. Here before him was the next generation of tech savants, financial gurus, thought leaders, and visionary entrepreneurs, and in between bites of seafood bastilla, chicken roasted with preserved lemons and olives, lamb tagine, and couscous, they were humblebragging about how each of them came to be invited to this ultra-exclusive wedding:
“Christian joined the latest funding round of my new pubic-grooming AI start-up. We’ve been BFFs ever since.”[*3]
“I’m the CFO of a family office in New York, and we have a wonderful relationship with the Radford family office in Sydney.”
“I’m ex-Meta, ex-McKinsey, ex-Tesla, ex-Twitter, and I was on a panel with Amanda at the Milken conference.”
Only a Chinese man in dark gold-rimmed glasses sitting directly opposite Rufus remained inscrutably silent, while next to Rufus, a hyper-chatty fellow was demonstrating his latest app to Rufus’s old schoolmate John. Meanwhile, the American girl to his right who said she was “a socially responsible angel” huddled with her dinner partner whispering about some problematic colleague.
“I’m telling you, that proxy-battle bullshit he tried to pull was textbook borderline,” the girl insisted.
The man beside her seemed doubtful. “Is he actually borderline, or does he just have narcissistic personality disorder like his father did?”
“It’s probably both.”
“They’re all so fucked up, none of them deserved control of the company!”
“The only one I like is whatshisname.”
“Cousin Greg?”
“No, no, Shiv’s husband.”
“Oh, Tom! I love Tom. How brilliant is his performance? He runs laps around Cameron Frye and that junior Culkin.”
“Can you believe Tom was Darcy in Pride & Prejudice?”
“What?! No fucking way!”
Rufus was trying to figure out how Jane Austen suddenly factored into the conversation when the chap to his left turned to him with a big grin.
“Hey! Ryan Chandani” (EtonHouse/St. Andrews/ACS/UWC/SAS/Yale). “Huuuuge fan of your work, dude!”
“Really? You know my work?” Rufus replied, rather surprised that this fellow had seen his artwork.
“Sure do.”
“Which series did you like?” Rufus probed.
“All of them, dude! Speaking of which, I want you to be part of my latest series offering. We just got a $1.5 billion valuation, we’re cash-flowing $9.2 mil per month, with NPS at 4.8/5, and we’re currently not raising but I’ll do you a massive favor and let you into our Series B at last year’s valuation.”
“Er…let me in?” Rufus asked, a bit mystified.
“Yes. Max is normally twenty, but for you I can do twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five works?”