In the lobby, a dour young woman holding an iPad—who isnotamused when Ari gives their names as “Dust Daddy and Plus One”—directs them to the coat check.
Ari slips off the puffy coat, revealing a fluid silk dress with a slit that comes way up her thigh. She glances at him for a nanosecond, but his eyes lock on to her back first, because, well, it’sbare,except for two dangerously thin straps that cross once. He’s never actually seen this part of her: graceful curves and muscles that reveal themselves when she hands the coat across the counter. He’s still staring—had the coat-check person said something?—when she turns around and asks if her dress is okay.
“I stuffed a cardigan into my coat pocket if it’s too—”
“No!” Josh says too quickly. “It’s”—the straps are so precarious. One unplanned twist of the shoulder and—“nice.”
“I thought we could go all in on the goth-wedding-guest aesthetic,” she says. “I took a wild leap of faith that you’d also be wearing black.”
He allows himself to look again. The neckline plunges into a low V. This, too, provides new visual information. Her breasts are covered by two small triangles of fabric held up by those tiny straps—the kind of thing where it’s very apparent that there couldn’t be a bra underneath. “I like it.”
“I’ve had it for a while,” she explains, fiddling with her gold earring. He hands over his coat and takes the claim ticket, feeling slightly deflated that this was a Cass-era dress. “Can we hit the bar first?”
Josh points in the direction of the elevator, happy to delay this interaction with his mother.
“You look really nice, too,” she adds.
His right hand keeps trying to place itself on the small of her back as they walk. He clenches it in a fist.
The bar is set up in a gallery that resembles a dark jewel box, lined with antique Tiffany lamps, all dramatically lit.
“Why are these parties so upscale and expensive if the point is to raise money?” she asks, stopping in front of the translucent staircase in the middle of the gallery and turning around to face him. Her face is illuminated by the softly glowing colored glass.
“I suppose I did agree that you could complain the whole time.”
She pauses to read a text panel next to a glass display case. “Huh. Turns out that Louis Comfort Tiffany didn’t even design most of these. As usual, it was a woman, toiling in obscurity.”
Josh scans the paragraph.
“It says she and her staff were ‘well-compensated,’ ” he points out.
“Yeah, well it doesn’t say ‘Clara Driscoll Gallery’ on the door. Clara Driscoll’s ancestors aren’t benefitting from generations of inherited wealth.”
“Seriously, no more museums for you.”
“Am I getting the hairbrush again, Dust Daddy?” she says loudly as a gray-haired couple passes by.
Josh feels a buzzy sensation, but this time it really is his phone. Mostly.
9:47p.m.
Abby:Where are you?
Josh:Getting a drink.
Abby:Dinner starts in 10.
Josh:Ari wants to look at the lamps.
Abby:Oh! Your date? Tell her to enjoy and take as much time as she wants!
After taking more time than necessary to down two more drinks, they meander upstairs to the dinner.
His mother isn’t hard to spot; she’s holding court in a semicircle of well-dressed benefactors in the center of the room.
Abby hones in on Ari like a heat-seeking missile before Joshcan weave through the crowd and set expectations. He’d planned to introduce her as a friend. Instead, he watches his mother hold Ari’s shoulders at arm’s length as if she’s examining a sweater at Bergdorf Goodman.
“IF ONE MOREwoman in Nicole Miller pretends to compliment my Louboutins so she can ask me if it’s a good time to list a two-bedroom, I’m going to lose it. Thank God you’re here.”
