Chapter Twenty-Five
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 look that good. 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 in the 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.”
Isaiah winked. “Don’t worry. When you see it, I’m sure it’ll speak to you.” Before Gabe could speak anything to that, Isaiah swanned away toward the waiter carrying the tray of mini lobster rolls. He was carrying a big bag, I noted. He’d be feasting on lobster for days.
Despite all the nerves trying to come up my throat, I couldn’t resist the grin that snaked its way onto my face once the artist was fully out of earshot. “What do you think, Gabe? Does it speak to you? Should we hang it in the place of pride in our living room?”
“Oh, it speaks to me, all right,” Gabe grumbled. “It says, Gabe, art is fake and nobody has any idea what they’re doing.”
Cora and her husband entered next. “Pom!” she said, stepping hesitantly, then less hesitantly as she saw what was, hopefully, a welcoming expression on my face. “I wasn’t expecting an invite now that you know who I really am.”
“You are not your family,” I said, leaning in automatically for a cheek kiss as her husband gave Gabe what I assumed from the wince on his face was a bone-crushing handshake.
“I know that better than anyone.” I hesitated for a moment, then said, hating myself a little bit as it came out, “Have you been to see her recently?”
I couldn’t bear to say her name, but obviously we all knew who I was talking about.
Cora responded softly, “She’s doing okay.
Somehow she has a feather mattress in her cell, and she raised a stink in the cafeteria because supposedly she’s allergic to soy, which is in pretty much everything, and I’m not sure how the dots were connected but now she has a private chef sending her meals. ”
Despite the circumstances, in that she’d made a blood relative of mine very bloody and that she’d also tried to kill me, I was glad to hear Opal was doing okay.
Well, about as okay as you could do in prison.
“Another few years and she’ll have become, like, a mob boss,” I said.
Cora laughed weakly, her smile now forced.
I nodded and moved her along before either of us had to acknowledge the weirdness of the situation.
A bunch of others came in next. Millicent and Coriander, Coriander wearing those ugly decoy glasses again as if they would win her extra points with me, the two of them literally tripping over each other to say how beautifully the room was decorated and how noble my cause was.
“Thank you,” I cooed, air-kissing them both. “And what exactly is that cause?”
“Uhh…”
“Uhhhhh…”
I swooped in to rescue them after a moment.
Okay, after a few moments. (Sue me, I enjoyed watching them squirm.) (No, don’t actually sue me, please—I was going to have to be in court enough to testify after tonight.) “I’m glad you both came,” I said, very kindly, more kindly than they deserved.
“We’ll go out again soon. I hear there’s that new underground club in the Village that plays nothing but amped-up classical music? ”
“Thank you, thank you,” Millicent gushed, blinking tears out of her eyes. Coriander probably was, too, only you could barely see her eyes past those big, ugly frames. “You won’t regret it.”
“I hope not,” I said. “I’ve always liked Beethoven.”
Next up came Nicholas and Jessica, who looked very chic tonight in an Emblème handkerchief dress that looked a little like a fun, sexy Persian rug. “Pom!” Jessica said brightly, swooping in for air kisses like a pro. “I’m obsessed with the new cardamom currant buns! They’re so good!”
I beamed. “Thank you! Ellie and Sage were pushing me toward cardamom lime, but I’m glad I stuck to my guns.”
“Me too.” She gave my hands another squeeze and moved deftly to the side to greet Gabe. Which, rather unpleasantly, left Nicholas before me.
“Big brother!” I said, trying to match her chirpiness, but it elicited nothing but a dour stare. Deep breath.
“You made me miss an important business meeting when you hijacked the jet.”
I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like I put a gun to Captain Ted’s head. Anyway, how’s the business?”
His face didn’t change. He clearly had no idea our parents had told me what he’d been up to, which was a fair assumption, considering my parents very rarely told me anything of importance. “Not excellent, as you would know if you ever came to a board meeting,” he huffed.
“Why would I come to a board meeting when I’m not on the board?”
“You are on the board.”
My eyes widened. “I am? Really?”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re an Afton. All Aftons have a place on the board.”