To his credit, he didn’t try to dissuade me. He only sighed. “Is it going to be dangerous?”
Now we were in it. I could feel my eyes sparkling. “Only a little.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-Five
It began with a party. It would end with a party too.
One week later, after I’d gone through some dusty old rec-ords and made some phone calls, I was exactly where I’d been the morning of my first gala, clothing myself like I was putting on armor. (If armor doubled as an absolutely darling marigold gown.) As I finished, I placed the makeup brush on the surface of my vanity with a monumental thud that made me think of resting a sword. “How do I look?”
“Incredible,” Vienna and Gabe said at the same time, which was impressive, actually. I must just lookthatgood. I took a deep breath, focusing on that and not the nerves swimming in my stomach like the basket of live eels a very exclusive sushi restaurant in a Tokyo basement had actually proposed I eat.
“Do you feel ready?”
“No,” the two said, also at the same time, which was equally impressive but more unnerving.
Oh well. Too late now. The space was already reserved and decorated, the last-minute invitations responded to. Granted, it was a space in the New York Afton, a place I would be perfectly happy to ghost, considering who still lived there and the memories that lived along with them. But society was rabid to get there and discuss everything that happened at the last gala, along with,hopefully, making those big donations they were supposed to make at that last gala.It’s for the kids, I told myself.And your reputation.Also, a little bit for personal glory, but I didn’t need to remind myself of that.
Vienna, Gabe, and I arrived early to greet guests, them flanking me like bodyguards (and the armed security I’d hired trailing behind me, also like a bodyguard). Time tilted as I stepped through the front doors of the Afton, my heels clicking on the marble tile, the faces at the front desk turning to smile at me even though one of them was in the middle of very sympathetically frowning at a grown man having a tantrum over having been assigned a room with an unlucky number. “Good evening, Ms. Afton!” they chorused.
I smiled back at them automatically. It didn’t used to be automatic like this; Old Pom would’ve probably just given them a sour look and swept past, all like,How dare you interact with me when I don’t want to be interacted with?But Old Pom had never worked at a coffee shop where customers felt free to treat her like a machine that occasionally wept with frustration when it couldn’t figure what all its buttons did. “Good evening.”
Down the grand hallway and into the even grander ballroom, which had already been booked for the night but which my mom had immediately freed up when I told her I wanted it (sorry, wedding of Michelle Horowitz and Ryan Tango. I hope clearing your registry and gifting you a honeymoon fund healthy enough to take you around the world a few times makes up for it). It looked just as it did when the hotel was built in the 1920s: marble floors with inlays; white and golden arches lining the walls; dazzling chandeliers; a ceiling covered in paintings of the sky that would probably be at home in Versailles.
I’d gone with relatively simple arrangements for decor: white cloths for the round tables; a low stage for the band; a table set up in the corner stacked with brochures my former assistant had spent hours upon hours compiling with experiences of students inthe system who’d benefited already from my foundation and which guests would likely toss on their way out the door. “It looks nice,” Vienna said.
“Thank you.” Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“It’ll work,” Vienna said. Gabe was a bit more pragmatic.
“Don’t forget the backup.”
All of our eyes strayed to the armed man behind us, who regarded us seriously in turn. Gabe said, “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Over the next half hour, I ran around fixing little details, which was great for distracting me from the nerves. Then people started to arrive, and the nerves came flooding right back.
The artists came first, probably to maximize the amount of free champagne and hors d’oeuvres they’d be able to consume. “Vienna, a pleasure,” said Isaiah first, a little bashfully. “It’s good to see you. You know I’m so sorry I couldn’t—”
“Save it,” Vienna said curtly. “You had to do what was best for you.”
And it had been best for him—his gallery show in Brooklyn had sold out; his next show would be in Manhattan, where the art world would see if his work could hold up on a bigger stage. “I’m still sorry,” he said. “I hope you’ll come to my next show. As the guest of honor.”
Everybody had such short memories. “We’ll see,” Vienna said.
Isaiah turned to me. “Pomona, thank you so much for inviting me.”
“Of course.”
He turned seamlessly to Gabe. “I’m hoping you’ll find something more suitable for you at my next show.”
Gabe cleared his throat. “Um. Sure.”
“You actually inspired me,” Isaiah said, hand making drawings in the air. It was hard to see what shapes he was trying to make; the big, chunky rings on every finger were quite distracting.“I’m thinking, for you, a painting. Multicolored, neon, glowing lights advertising the opening of a store. In the window, an assortment of dildos in every color. In the middle, one real penis.”
Gabe choked. “Oh.”
