1 #2
After dinner, Ray’s had two glasses of self-esteem and he’s got that little smile that says even the parking meter’s gonna clap for him tonight.
He drops the bomb:
"We’re going to a charity gala. You’re going to love it."
"What a treat."
Inside I crumble real slow, because it’s exactly what I needed to round out the night: a peacock strut in front of Madrid’s aristocracy. I cover it with another radiant smile glued to my face.
The key to surviving this, girl, is go full diva: never, and I mean never, show signs of panic.
We walk in and a nervous laugh takes over me. Giant ballroom straight out of a period film, murdery chandeliers, endless tables, Instagram-ready canapés with adorable faces.
I skip the food and the party; my radar’s spinning full blast, because there’s no guarantee a client won’t show up—the kind who pay to vent about their husband and then flood my WhatsApp with voice notes at three a.m., promising revolution only to end up crying in the bathroom.
I daydream the train wreck: me on Ray’s arm, catalog-bride smile, and suddenly Martina from Pozuelo yelling, "Hey, babe, aren’t you the one who told me to leave my husband?
" Cold sweat surges and I get a powerful urge to open a trapdoor in the floor.
Ray’s thrilled and I’m glued to him like a wedding cake topper.
I swear to dish out "so nice to meet you"s and "thank yous" left and right; tonight I’m full-time nice. I also decide to delete names as I hear them so I don’t max out my RAM. They introduce me to a marchioness with a last name that sounds like a gated community, a CEO with an imported-sounding name, and a guy who looks like he’d ask for your résumé before the second canapé.
"A pleasure," I tell the marchioness. "Such a beautifully put-together event."
"Love your style," the CEO says. "Where’s the dress from?"
"Madrid, through and through," I shoot back, fresh as hell.
"Ray, man, you outdid yourself," says the résumé guy. "What a couple."
"Thanks, we’re very happy," I reply, ever the nanny to a good platitude.
I drift between floors, pretending to care about paintings of splotches.
Ray won’t let me go even with a crowbar: arm in arm, photo after photo.
If a client clocks me, I’ll have a meltdown in front of the step-and-repeat and end up in some nasty thread.
I clock the emergency exit, count the feet, assess whether the dress allows a sprint.
Champagne flows shamelessly. Me, when I’m working, I don’t touch it—I’ve got my hands full not calling the first guy in a tie “boss”—but Vega says the only way to survive galas is drinking, and tonight I’m here to be Vega.
I take a swig; my trachea burns. Tastes like trouble.
Even so, I put on my elegant Renaissance-lady face and keep going.
Between one hello and the next, just when I think I’ve dodged humiliation, bam: my eyes lock onto a platinum blonde with super-short hair, mile-long legs, a perfect suit, boss energy.
She drills into me with her eyes and the sweat faucet in my back turns on.
My brain blares an alert: run, Alaska, she’s seeing straight through your act.
And yes, I absolutely want to roll out of here; I’m a blink away from faking a fainting spell and leaving Ray with a canapé halfway to his mouth.
Though, knowing my luck, she’d peg me as the damsel in distress type and slap me awake.
Besides, Malasana’s rent—practically highway robbery—lightly soothes my conscience. Money, that muse of the brave.
"Honey," Ray says, catching my stiffness, "I’m going to introduce you to Eire."
"Nice to meet you," I blurt on autopilot, smile glued on.
"Vega, right?" she greets me. "I’ve seen you around—you hold your own."
"You do what you can," I reply with rehearsed modesty.
I keep repeating to myself that I’ve studied the part, with an imaginary earpiece and Vega’s voice yelling: straight posture, neutral vocabulary, no jokes.
"Do you work in communications?" she asks.
"Yeah, strategy," I tell her, dead serious. "Analysis, crisis management, reading the room."
"Ray, I’ll find you later," she adds, and floats off without brushing against a soul.
I half-breathe. Another sip. A laugh bubbles up; I mask it by biting a canapé. Ray gives me a sidelong look.
"You’re a ten," he says, convinced.
"I’m on autopilot," I say. "If I catch fire, put me out with cava."
He laughs and drags me to another cluster.
I keep working the room. I start to enjoy the theater of it, go figure.
I pretend I know about art, the stock market, horses, sustainable catering—whatever the face in front of me calls for.
If they throw English terms at me, I nod with authority and make a mental note: nod and promise nothing.
Inside, I’m drafting voice memos for later: Alaska, remember everything, learn to say no without apologizing, review your cell data plan because they’re charging per gig at truffle prices.
I cross the room again and run into a group of ladies with tanning-booth tans. One stops me with perfect nails.
"I’ve seen you in online videos," she blurts.
My heart does parkour. Client… influencer… ghost from the past?
"Could be," I say. "I do the occasional collab."
Please let her mean Vega’s fake recipe reels and not the other thing. Is that too much to ask?
"Red looks amazing on you," she finishes. "It makes you look powerful."
"Thanks, you’re sweet," I say, and slip away with elegance.
Ray offers me another glass of champagne. I sniff it and decide that’s enough. I switch to water and a sixty-percent smile; saving energy for the end of the party. I do a strategic lap, check exits, count benches, calculate whether the bathroom has a window. It does. Peace.
After a bit, the blonde crosses my path again.
She lifts her glass with a tiny gesture.
I do the same. No tremor. I feel proud: I’ve gone from jittery extra to supporting actress.
Next goal: get paid and sleep. If I don’t get mowed down by someone else’s heel, I’m walking out of here undefeated.
And if I run into a client, I’ll smile, breathe, deliver the speech, and cry at home.
Ray, to my surprise—because I didn’t believe a word of what Vega said—is a limited-edition Prince Charming: opens doors, pours champagne, and asks every two minutes if I need anything.
The guy’s obsessed with me inhaling canapés on a timer.
He reminds me of my neighbor Pepi when she drops by and forces croquettes on me until my vision blurs.
"You okay?" his lordship asks me.
"Yeah, yeah, couldn’t be better," I say, but my smile is already giving me a cramp in one eyebrow.
"I can see you’re tense." Drama voice, like I’m one slip away from faking an injury in the middle of the room.
He’s actually worried. In my head, there’s already a hospital scene, doctors in slow motion, Ray collapsing when he realizes I’ve fainted, and the blonde holding both of us up at once because of course she can do it all.
I snap back because Ray insists, "If you want, we can leave as soon as the auction’s over, okay?"
With a tenderness I haven’t even practiced, I pull a PhD in puppy-dog eyes.
"Oh no, silly, it’s just that these things make me nervous. So many important people…" I say, and squeeze his hand, pretending I’m worried about letting him down, when really I’m freaking out about that woman across the room.
Ray nods and gives me a half-smile. If I didn’t know a tailored Armani turns him on more than any of my charms, I might almost feel bad about lying to him. But hey, everyone’s got their issues.
Thing is, the chick doesn’t budge a millimeter.
The blonde, I mean. She looks comfy, empress of the room.
Black pantsuit, a watch that screams money, total tomboy vibe.
My gaydar is at DEFCON 1 and my brain is spinning five theories a second: Did she come for me?
Did we hook up at some party? Or maybe she just liked what she saw, which wouldn’t be that weird, right?
Because, being realistic, I’d remember a monument like that if I’d run into her before.
I look up and there she is, auditing my every move. Maybe she’s waiting for me to slip so she can watch me launch a canapé into some lady’s cleavage. And me, I can hold a stare till the other person blinks—I hang on. Even if my left eyelid is twitching.
Ray doesn’t let up fussing over me.
"Dessert: cheesecake or chocolate mousse," he says, with that cheerleader sparkle in his eyes. "Get both, Vega. For you, anything."
"Whatever you say," I tell him, good-girl mode activated.
I feel like a fraud with a mini tart in my hand.
And on top of that, I’m getting a little thrill from not knowing if the woman recognized me or if she just wants to invite me for a drink in the ladies’ room.
I admit it: I live on micro-doses of drama; though right now the only urgent thing is my bladder throwing a tantrum.
I don’t know if other people go to the restroom for epiphanies. I need to escape the blonde’s fixed gaze and Ray’s enthusiasm.
"I’m going to freshen up for a sec," I announce. "Be right back."
I go in, look at myself in the mirror and, not to brag, but I’ve got it going on today. The black dress looks outrageously good on me; I scored it on sale after a death match with two ladies at Zara. The makeup gives me cat eyes and even my hair, miracle of miracles, has decided not to rebel.