by Lia Romeo
“So whenever you get low on cash, you just . . . go to Vegas?”
“Or somewhere else . . . Foxwoods . . . Atlantic City. There are some beautiful casinos in the Bahamas, actually. Maybe we can go sometime.”
“Um.”
He puts a hand on my arm. “Lucy, listen. Let me just buy you the dress. If only so I can see you in it again.”
“Well . . .”
He can tell I’m wavering. “Wait here. I’m going to go pay for it. I’ll be right back.”
I watch the Chanel woman shopping, fingering swaths of satin and lace, accepting a flute of champagne from another chic blonde salesclerk, of which Barneys seems to have an endless supply. What would it be like to be her? I can’t imagine feeling like money weren’t an issue . . . ever since I’ve been out of college and living on my own, it’s been one of the things I’ve worried about. And before that I remember my parents worrying about it, heads bent over piles of bills at the dining room table late at night. What would it be like to shop at a place like this as if it were normal?
In a moment, Lewis reappears, holding the dress swathed in a giant black garment bag. “So,” he says as we go back towards the escalator, “you’re going to need shoes, right?”
We take the escalator up to the fourth floor, and after a few minutes I’m the owner of a pair of strappy gold heels that manage to be both delicate and astonishingly comfortable. “I think I’m probably going to wear these shoes every day for the rest of my life,” I tell Lewis, and he chuckles.
Then there’s a stop in the accessories department, back on the first floor, where I acquire a slim gold leather envelope clutch—it’s Anya Hindmarch, a designer I’ve never even heard of. I don’t even let myself look at the price tag, just nod in assent when Lewis asks if it’s the one I want. I’m definitely going to carry this clutch every day for the rest of my life . . . every time I go out, at least. I love it even more than Nat’s baby Gucci . . . the beautifully shiny leather, the streamlined, asymmetrical shape. I think it’s the most elegant thing I’ve ever owned.
“So here’s the plan for the rest of the afternoon,” Lewis says as we head for the door. “You’ll have to get your hair and makeup done—”
“I will?” I’ve never had my makeup done, and the only time I’ve had my hair done was when I was eighteen and a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding.
“Yeah, you’ve got an appointment at Frederic Fekkai at four-thirty.”
This day is getting more and more surreal. Natalie tried to book an appointment at Frederic Fekkai for six months last year and could never get in. “Okay . . .”
“It’s only a couple of blocks from here. And I think the best thing would be to leave the dress with you—so you can get changed there, and I’ll pick you up there in the car at seven-thirty.”
“You . . . have a car?” This is the first I’ve heard of this.
“No, no, I just got us a limo for the evening. We can’t exactly show up to a black-tie event in a taxi.”
We can’t? “Um, no. Of course not.”
He walks me over to the salon, which is on the fourth floor of a building on Fifth Avenue. Inside, more Blake Lively look-alikes—in fact I’m fairly sure one of them is Blake Lively herself—are getting their tresses snipped, colored, and blow-dried by the black-smocked masters.
“Your appointment’s with Claire,” Lewis says. “I tried to get Frederic, but he’s doing an event in Vegas. And Giovanni for makeup.”
“Okay . . .”
“So I guess I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” He hands me the dress, and his fingers linger on mine for a moment. Then he turns and heads out of the salon.
Watching him walk, I have another brief flashback to the hallway incident yesterday morning—his hands on my hips, pulling off my thong, the look of desire in his eyes. I sigh and turn away quickly.
– 16 –
THREE HOURS later, thanks to the ministrations of Claire and Giovanni—as well as Renee the colorist, Andrea the facialist, and Douglas the eyebrow guru, I’m completely transformed. Renee has given me honey-blonde highlights, which shimmer and catch the light, and Claire has snipped long layers into my hair to bring out the highlights and accentuate my cheekbones. Then, with the help of a curling iron, she’s turned it into a mass of bouncy waves that frame my face. I can hardly stop tossing my head and running my hands through it.
Andrea has given me a thirty-minute oxygen facial, which has left my skin fresh and glowing (so this is why Mel gets a facial every month), and Douglas has shaped my brows into two pencil-thin arches that manage to make me look both delicate and surprised. And Giovanni. He’s given me flawless skin, smoky eyes, and coral-colored lips that match my gown exactly.
The staff has graciously allowed me to change in one of the private rooms they use for facials, and has assured me that I’ll be able to pick up my clothes at the salon tomorrow. So now I’m sitting in one of the salon chairs, admiring myself in the mirror, sipping champagne, and waiting for Lewis.
I should mention that I’m on my third glass of champagne at this point. They handed me a flute when I came in, and kept refilling it from a bottle of Veuve Clicquot while they worked on my hair and my face. Which, in my defense, probably explains a lot about what happens the rest of the night.
It starts out perfectly. At exactly seven-thirty, a long black limousine pulls up in front. I’ve been gazing anxiously out the window, and when Lewis climbs out, looking almost heartbreakingly debonair in a tuxedo that has to have been tailor-made for him, I can’t help breaking into a wide smile. I stand and take a couple of steps towards him just as he opens the door of the salon and takes a couple of steps towards me, and then we stop, gazing at each other for a minute.
“They’ll have to invent a few more words,” he says.
“I look okay?”
“You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”
The words hit me physically and take my breath away. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Of course, Lewis is probably lying . . . but still. No one has ever said anything like that to me before.
He comes close, until we’re inches apart, and for a moment I think we’re going to kiss, can almost feel the heat of his lips on mine. And then he takes my arm, and Claire and Giovanni and Renee and Douglas and Andrea begin applauding, saying things like: “Che bella” and “Trop jolie” and “What a beautiful couple.” And it’s true, I realize, looking at us reflected arm in arm in the mirrors over and over again. We do make a beautiful couple. Or we would, if we were a couple, which we’re not, of course.
It’s once we’re in the limo that things start to go south. The museum is only a few blocks away—we could almost have walked—but my “astonishingly comfortable” new Manolos aren’t exactly made for the New York City sidewalks, nor is the hem of my gown, which trails on the floor. So we settle into the leather seats, and Lewis opens the partition between us and the driver.
“Could you go around the block, John?” he asks. “I want to admire Lucy for a few minutes.”
He picks up a bottle of champagne that’s been sitting on ice on the door, along with two glasses.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I tell him. “I had a few at the salon.”
“So have a few more,” he says with a smile, pouring the champagne. He puts the bottle back on ice and lifts his glass to mine. “Cheers,” he says. “To a wonderful evening.”
I can’t exactly argue with that, so I clink my glass against his and take a drink. My head is starting to feel as fizzy as the bubbles in my champagne glass, and it suddenly occurs to me to wonder: “Can you even get drunk?”
He chuckles. “When I’m in human form, sure,” he says. “I can get drunk, I can get sick, I can hurt, I can get—” he runs a finger down my leg through the silk of my gown, and I shiver—“turned on. All the things humans do.”
“What about . . . when you’re not in human form? Are you . . . ?”
He laughs. “I’m not a giant r
ed beast with horns and a pitchfork, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m sort of an elemental—like a wind, a fiery wind. Which is convenient for travel, but I prefer to be more substantial the rest of the time.”
I try to nod sagely, as though having my date tell me that he was “sort of a fiery wind” were an everyday occurrence. “So . . . when you’re in human form . . . you’re just like a normal person?”
“Yes,” he says. “Except I’m immortal, of course.”
Of course. Also a totally normal thing for your date to tell you on the way to a black-tie benefit. “So you’ve . . . always been around?”
“Yes,” he says, “and I always will be. In one form or another.”
I take another sip of champagne. “So . . . you could, like, tell me what the world was like five thousand years ago.”
“Sure,” he says with a smile. “I could tell you all kinds of things.”
“Wow.” My glass is empty, and Lewis picks up the bottle and refills it. I take a sip. “So tell me something.”
“Like what?”
I’m sure there are all kinds of intelligent questions I should be asking him about history, but after all the champagne I’ve had, they’re not coming to mind. “Um. Did people really walk around in togas during the Roman Empire?”
“They did,” he says. “At least free Roman citizens did. Slaves and foreigners weren’t allowed to wear togas, so they just wore tunics.”
“And what about gladiator sandals?”
“Only indoors,” he says. “Sandals weren’t considered outdoor footwear. Outdoors they wore shoes called calcei . . . they were made of leather, sort of like boots.”
“Cool.” Just then the limo slows to a stop, and Lewis offers me his hand. “Are you ready?”
I feel like I could sit here all night, drinking champagne with Lewis, but I’m also curious about what’s awaiting us inside. The driver comes around and opens the door, and Lewis takes my arm and helps me out, and arm in arm we walk up the wide, imposing stairs to the museum. My heel catches on one of the steps and I stumble a bit, and Lewis steadies me.
As we approach the door, it occurs to me to ask for the first time: “So what is this benefit . . . benefiting?”
“Multiple sclerosis research,” he says.
“You support multiple sclerosis research?” I ask him, surprised.
“Why not?” he says.
Um. Because you’re evil? But before I have a chance to reply, we’re at the door. Lewis produces two tickets from a pocket of his tux and hands them to a man dressed in black and wearing a headset, who nods and gestures us inside. The museum’s grand entrance hall is filled with people, all dressed to the nines, men in tuxedoes and women in sweeping gowns. Even with four glasses of champagne under my belt, in my four thousand dollar dress and with my new makeover, I’m dazzled. Waiters are circulating with trays of appetizers and drinks, and I grab a bacon-wrapped shrimp and another champagne flute as they go by.
“Is that—?” I whisper to Lewis, spotting a petite brunette in a midnight-blue gown.
“Eva Longoria,” he confirms.
“And that’s—” I whisper, seeing a face across the room that’s familiar from hours of watching Indiana Jones movies with my brother, hiding under the blankets in my parents’ bed during the scary parts.
“Harrison Ford,” he says. “And Calista Flockhart.” Calista is beautiful in a short red one-shoulder silk dress, but even more emaciated than she looks in magazines.
“This is kind of unbelievable,” I whisper to Lewis, and he smiles.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“So where’s your, um, your business associate?” I ask him.
“My what?”
“That gave you the tickets?”
“Oh,” he says. “That was a lie, actually.”
“What?”
“Nobody gave me tickets. I just—I wanted to take you somewhere fun.”
My mouth drops. “So . . . you didn’t have to come? You don’t actually know anybody here?”
“Oh, I’ve met quite a few of them,” he says. “But I looked different. They wouldn’t recognize me now.” He turns and looks down at me, and I lose myself for a minute in the blue of his eyes. “Tonight’s not about business. It’s just about you.”
I pull myself away from his gaze, taking a big sip from my champagne glass. “But I’m business. Right?”
“No,” he says, putting a finger on my jaw and turning me back to face him. “Not anymore.”
He leans down and kisses me gently, a public kiss, a middle-of-a-hall-full-of-people kiss, but despite the glitterati milling around us, I feel myself responding, pressing my lips and my body against his. Just as the kiss starts to become deeper, I tear myself away again, suddenly blinking tears from my eyes.
“It isn’t fair,” I tell him.
“What?” he says, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder. “Lucy, what’s wrong?”
“I want so much to believe you.”
“You can,” he says earnestly.
“No I can’t.”
I shake his hand off my shoulder and walk away, still blinking furiously, searching for a waiter with more champagne. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going, just trying to get away from Lewis, and I almost walk directly into a man who steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. I look up. Perfectly tailored tuxedo, dark brown hair, starting to turn to silver at the temples, strong jaw, brown eyes. He’s attractive. Older, but definitely attractive. And he’s looking down at my cleavage, which Jeffrey has highlighted with shimmering bronzer, appreciatively.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where were you going in such a hurry?” he asks.
“Just . . . to get a drink.”
He laughs. “Girl after my own heart. Can I escort you to the bar?”
And suddenly Lewis is at my elbow. “No,” he says in a steely voice. “I’m afraid you can’t.”
“Oh,” says the older man, backing off, “I’m sorry—” But Lewis, fingers still gripping my elbow, almost hard enough to hurt, is leading me away in the opposite direction. Beyond the museum entryway, I see for the first time, the first hall in the Greek and Roman Antiquities wing is set for a banquet, tables interspersed among the ancient marble statues that are missing limbs from having spent thousands of years buried in the earth. The tables are set with white tablecloths and crystal vases full of purple flowers. The effect is magnificent.
Lewis pulls me behind a pedestal, on top of which is mounted a muscular headless torso, still bearing chisel scars. “Okay, Luce,” he says. “We need to talk.”
“Why?” I ask him, trying to shake his fingers off my arm.
“Because you persist in believing that I’m lying when I tell you I want to be with you.”
“You don’t want to be with me,” I tell him, “you want to trick me into doing something terrible and get me sent to Hell!” My voice has risen, and a few of the people beginning to filter in from the main entryway glance at me curiously.
“Shh!” Lewis says, pulling me further into the corner. A naked marble woman gazes down at me from above with blank eyes. “That’s not what I’m doing anymore,” he says more quietly. “I promise.”
“But how am I supposed to trust you?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “How are you ever supposed to trust anyone?”
“I . . .” I’m about to come back with a snappy reply, but I realize I don’t have one. “I don’t know,” I finish lamely.
“Every time you get involved with someone, you’re making a choice,” he says. “A choice to trust them, even though you don’t really know yet whether you should.”
“Yeah, okay, but most of the time they aren’t Satan!” I exclaim, finally managing to pull myself away from his grasp and grabbing another champagne flute from a passing tray. I gulp the champagne down, set the flute back on the tray and pick up another. The waiter raises his eyebrows at me.
I tip back the second glass of champagne and drain it, then look around for a place to set the glass down—maybe on the base of the marble statue? I’m wobbling on my heels, and Lewis takes my arm again and gently plucks the champagne glass out of my fingers.
“Come on,” he says. “They’re seating for dinner. You need to sit down and have something to eat.”
I want to pull away from him and walk to the table on my own, but the floor has started tilting at a distressing angle, and I allow him to put an arm around my shoulders to steady me and lead me over to our table. There’s an elderly couple already seated, she in a beautiful, rich red velvet gown and he, of course, in a tuxedo. They introduce themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Jay Harrison and offer us each a glass of wine from the already open bottle of red on the table. I accept eagerly. Lewis gives me a concerned look that I ignore, then accepts as well.
Soon three more couples seat themselves at our table. Their faces are blurring together, but none of them appear to be anyone famous, which is disappointing. “How come there aren’t any movie stars at our table?” I whisper to Lewis . . . or maybe I don’t quite manage to whisper, because suddenly everyone at the table is looking at me.
“Just what I was wondering, dear,” says Mrs. Jay Harrison graciously, and everyone laughs. Emboldened, I continue, waving my wine glass as I address the table.
“I mean, isn’t that why people come to these things? To hang out with famous people? It’s not really because of multiple sclerosis . . . is it? I mean, does anybody here really care about multiple sclerosis?”
“Our son has multiple sclerosis,” Mrs. Jay Harrison says, her voice considerably chillier this time.
“Oh! God, that’s terrible, I—I’m really sorry.” I’m trying to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Toasts always make people feel better . . . don’t they? I raise my wine glass. “To multiple sclerosis! Um, research,” I proclaim, and drain half the glass before I realize that nobody else is drinking with me.
I set the glass down. The room, which has been tilting back and forth slowly for quite some time, has begun spinning faster, and a wave of nausea suddenly rises up from my stomach. “I’m going to throw up,” I manage to announce, before I vomit champagne and red wine all over my place setting.
