I’m speechless as he grabs my left hand and unceremoniously slides the rings—a band to match his and anobscenediamond the size of a compact car—onto my finger. I pray that my hand isn’t as hot to the touch as my face feels.
“If anything, making eyes at one’s sister is decidedly old money behavior,” Lesley chimes in unhelpfully.
“We can’t do two fake-dating things in a row,” I protest. It’s over-the-top, even for Anna Matthews.
“We’re not fake dating,” Grant says. He gives my newly ringed hand a little shake. “We’re fake married. And if it makes you feel better, we can be hours from fake divorce.”
He drops my hand, but the sight of the matching ring on his finger makes me feel like we’re handcuffed together.
Suddenly, the idea of entertaining the company of a serial killer tonight seems welcome. A relief, even. Like a cold shower or a much-needed slap in the face.
“If you ask me,” says Lesley, even though nobody did, “posing as a couple is quite to your advantage in acting tasteless. Lovers’ quarrel in the galleries, snogging on the dance floor. That sort of thing.”
“Ew,” I say, perhaps a bit too loudly, blocking out the image before my cheeks go pink.
“Again, thanks so much,” says Grant.
Lesley shoves a ridiculous chauffeur hat on his head and opens the door. “All right, you two, get your knickers out of a twist. Do whatever you want—dance on tables, spill your drinks, brag about knowing Banksy—just as long as you misbehave enough to provoke some sneaky blueblood to murder, got it?”
Grant and I grumble our responses—“Got it” and “You’re not Banksy”—simultaneously.
Lesley steps out to lead us to the car, and as I pass Lissa, she coughs, avoiding eye contact.
“Grant and Roxie sitting in a tree,M-A-R-R-I-E-D,” she sings under her breath.
I let out a deeply frustratedUGHas I step out into the night.
“None taken,” Grant calls out after me.
• • •
THE V&A MAKESthe Boston Public Library look, frankly, like a shoebox. It’s a cathedral of a museum, crowned with soaring columns and arches, lit gold against a darkening sky. Honestly,from the perspective of the New Money Mangler, I get it. If I were a dramatic snob with insatiable bloodlust, this is where I’d want to make my kill, too.
After we check in, Grant ushers me toward the bar with a hand on the small of my back, and I call on my training to stay focused.I am present. I am in control. I am not suddenly very aware of how backless my dress is.
Still, a nice, calming tequila shot would not go amiss.
Phase One of our plan, though, is to bribe the bartender to give us ginger ale every time we demand champagne. This serves two purposes: it’s an excuse to wave a wad of cash around, and it will give us the illusion of reveling in excess while keeping our wits about us.
Phase Two is to assess the scene and identify suspects. Fake bubbly in hand, we split up to cover more ground, milling about the magnificent domed hall with periodic glances at each other. Strictly to keep tabs, of course. Can’t have one of us getting mangled without the other. I watch for a little too long as Grant adjusts his cuffs, sweeping his analytical gaze from person to person, and realize I’m not the only one tracking his movements; he’s met with more than a few hair tosses and admiring smiles from chiffon-draped women. And even though he returns them with nothing more than a polite nod, a curious prickling sensation is creeping over me. I think that’s enough of Phase Two.
Grant and I reconvene in the gallery with zero leads. Most people here aren’t exactly brimming with friendliness, but there aren’t any straight-up murderous vibes yet. So it’s onto Phase Three, or as I like to call it: The Big Old New Money Razzle-Dazzle.
We wander around and strike up random conversations, or butt into ones that are already underway. Grant ditches his jacket. I attempt to blind people with my ring. We brag, we name-drop, we make passive-aggressive comments about our turbulent marriage. We pull out every trick in the book, turning the place into our own personal Olympics of Making People Uncomfortable.
“An inheritance is fine, if you’re into that kind of thing. But have you heard of Dogecoin?”
“You’re a Lord? So am I! Which website did you buy your title from?”
“As my dear friend, the great Mario Lopez, once said to me …”
The people we grace with our presence do not want to be around us; that much is clear. But they also don’t seem to care enough to want us dead.
What wehavesucceeded in doing, however, is entertaining the living hell out of each other. An hour and several glasses of ginger ale into the evening, I’ve almost forgotten that this isn’t just a big, hilarious game of one-upmanship between me and Grant.
And I appear to be winning, judging by Grant’s near inability to keep a straight face while I regale our latest victims with stories of our European travels. I tick off the exaggerated and mispronounced cities on my fingers—Paree, Barthelona, Mont Carlo.
“Don’t forget our trip to Sweden,” Grant says, smirking. “Remind me: What are your favorite things about that country?”
