Perfect on Paper (19 page)

“I’m beginning to think excitement is overrated,” I told Elinor Ann.

“Wow, Dana.”

“Wow, what?”

“I never dreamed I’d be saying this, but I think you’re in a serious relationship.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Well, you would be if you could manage to steer clear of that teenager.”

But I had steered clear of Billy Moody, aside from the occasional grid-related email, ever since our ill-fated evening out, and I intended to keep it that way. Things were going well with Hank—Christmas well. I was spending almost every night at the brownstone now; in fact, we’d already made plans to get together again after work.

Plans I realized I had to cancel when I checked my messages later that afternoon—specifically the email from Lark with the words “Holiday Party” in the subject line:

Swell,
I thought, recalling gallery parties from the past: an army of ectomorphic caterers circulating endless flutes of champagne, which our well-heeled clients would sip politely while our artists overindulged, until one of them—a few years back it had been Sandro—had to be escorted to the curb and into a cab.

But tonight Sandro would be with his wife, and Lark would be the center of attention.

But what was I going to wear? I’d been so busy planning her outfit, I’d given no thought to my own.

I opened my closet and grabbed my fallback dressy ensemble: a pair of black, wide-legged trousers and a creamy satin blouse. I was just tying the shirttails in a knot around my waist when I realized I’d worn the exact same thing the last time I’d attended the gallery party. Come to think of it, so had the caterers.

But what did it matter? No one would be looking at me this evening—unless they wanted their champagne flute topped off. The night belonged to the Girl in the Blue Satin Dress.

I’d gone outside to wait for her when a comically elongated limo,
stretching nearly the length of the block, pulled up to the stoop. Its back door swung open, but before Lark’s feet touched the pavement, Vivian materialized in front of her.

“
Slingbacks?
Are you fucking
kidding
me?”

“Well, I—”

“What size shoe do you wear?”

“Six and a half. But—”

Vivian grabbed her arm and marched her into the shop as I followed close behind. “I’m thinking the Valentino peek-toe pumps, but try the silver kitten heels while you’re at it,” she said, pointing to the shoe rack built into the rear wall. Lark dutifully scampered off.

“You are
not
charging my friend another dime for that pair of shoes,” I whispered once she was out of earshot.

Vivian rolled her eyes. “Fine. One more Hannah and we’ll call it even.”

“Forget it. No more Hannahs.”

Lark reappeared before Vivian could react. She took a few paces back and forth in the pumps, then went off to try the kitten heels.

“Everyone at the party tonight is going to ask her where she got that dress,” I said. “She’ll tell them. That’s payment enough, Vivian.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?”

I shrugged. “Of course, she could always wear those slingbacks she came in with.…” I turned to watch Lark approaching in the silver kitten heels.

So did Vivian. “Those are the ones,” she announced, reaching into a desk drawer and scooping up a stack of business cards. “And if you’re willing to hand these out to the women who’ll want to know where you bought your outfit, the shoes are on me.”

Lark threw her arms around her benefactor. “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met!”

I gave Vivian a nudge after Lark had gone into the bathroom to retouch her makeup. “Admit it. You
are
sweet.”

“I’m a lot of things, but we both know sweet isn’t one of them.” Vivian frowned. “What is it about that girl, anyway? You’re giving me two Hannahs for her dress, and here I am throwing in the footwear.”

“She’s us, before life intervened,” I said.

Vivian shook her head. “I was never that young. I was older than her on the day I was born. So… who’s the guy she’s getting all dolled up for?”

“A creep.”

“Married?”

“Naturally.”

Vivian sighed. “I take it back. I
was
that young once.” She returned to her desk and rummaged through the top drawer until Lark emerged from the bathroom in fresh lipstick.

“I guess I’m ready.”

“Not quite.” Vivian held up a glittering bracelet that made Lark gasp.

“Are those real diamonds?”

“What do you think?” Vivian replied, fastening it around her wrist. “Just keep one thing in mind: This bracelet is a loan. If you lose it, I’ll track you down and stab you to death with those kitten heels you’ve got on.”

“How sweet of you,” I murmured, smirking, as Vivian ushered us out the door.

“Go fuck yourself,” she murmured back.

Lark was trembling with anticipation by the time we pulled up in front of the gallery. “Oh, Dana, I can’t believe this night is finally here!”

“I know exactly how you feel.”

Did I ever. Apparently, so did Vivian. I tried to remember how I used to pass the time between my Thursday afternoon dates: Working. Talking to Elinor Ann. Wishing I’d hear from Ray.

Mostly in vain.

I turned to face Lark. “Listen—I know this party is a big deal for you, but… don’t you think you deserve a real boyfriend?”

“What do you mean? Sandro is my real boyfriend.”

No, he isn’t,
I thought but didn’t say.
A real boyfriend answers the phone when you call him. Yours can only text you from his bathroom. And you’ll spend this entire evening on opposite sides of the room, pretending to ignore each other.

And somehow, you’ll find a way to convince yourself it’s all worth it.

The chauffeur swung open the door, and Lark clutched my hand. “This is so exciting!”

Excitement’s overrated,
I thought, wishing I were back at the brownstone with my real boyfriend.

The party was well under way by the time we arrived, but the noise level dropped perceptibly when Lark removed her coat and turned to face the room in a swirl of satin and chiffon. The owner of the gallery approached her with open arms. “You’re exquisite!” he gushed, kissing her on both cheeks before handing me his empty champagne glass.

“Hi, Lucien,” I said, handing it back to him.

“My goodness. Is that you, Dana? I thought you were one of my caterers.”

He sauntered off before I could confirm my identity.

I surveyed the crowd while Lark accepted compliments from a steady stream of admirers. All eyes were on her.

All eyes but Sandro’s. I spotted him in a corner next to one of his triptychs, his gaze fixed firmly on his wife: a statuesque Italian with a prominent nose, bright yellow hair extensions, and the perkiest breasts I’d ever seen on a woman in her fifties. Her husband’s face was a furious shade of magenta.

Lark plucked two flutes of champagne off a passing tray. “Do you think Sandro knows I’m here?”

I looked back to the corner. His color had risen; his eyes were still riveted to his wife.

“I think he’s aware.”

“I’m going to the ladies’ room. Maybe he’ll follow me back there.”

She made her way through the horde, and I braced myself for an onslaught of refill requests. But salvation arrived in the guise of my former coworker. We’d been inseparable during my years at the gallery.

“Rodney Ambrose,” I said, embracing his tiny frame. “Skinny as ever.”

“Look who’s talking,” he drawled, hugging back. Over his shoulder, I watched Sandro excuse himself and disappear down the hall leading to the restrooms.

Rodney took a step back and looked me up and down. “I hate to admit it, but life after Lucien seems to be agreeing with you. Even though I’m never going to forgive you for abandoning me.”

“I didn’t realize you were still working here.”

But I couldn’t say I was surprised. The artwork Rodney produced in his off-hours had limited appeal. He was a photo-realist who painstakingly re-created the covers of romance novels, replacing the original model’s face with that of his alter ego, Ambrosia.

He squeezed my hand. “God, I’ve missed you, Dana. I can’t even keep track of how many assistants we’ve run through since you left.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“You know how it is. They manage to get one of their pieces into a group show at some god-forsaken outpost in Gowanus or Dumbo, and the next thing you know, they’re the toast of the demimonde.”

“Don’t worry, Rodney. Your day will come.”

“So, how about you? Sell any paintings lately?”

I didn’t have time to answer before I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned to face an agitated Lark, our coats draped over her arm. “Come on, Dana. We have to leave.
Right now
.” She tugged harder, and I followed, giving
Rodney the universal “call me” sign just before he was engulfed by the crowd.

We made it to the sidewalk before her tears began to flow in earnest. “I’ve ruined everything,” she whimpered, letting out a high-pitched wail.

I took her by the elbow and steered her down the block to the corner. “Tell me what happened. What did Sandro say to you?”

“Oh, Dana. He said I looked like a slu—a slu—”

“A slut? Seriously?”

In response, she wrapped her coat more tightly around the offending outfit.

“Lark, everyone at that party was dazzled the minute you walked in. You looked like a real-life Cinderella tonight.”
And if you could only have managed to stick around a little longer, you might have finally met your prince,
I thought, scanning the traffic streaming up Tenth Avenue.

“Then why did Sandro—?”

“He was jealous, pure and simple,” I answered before leaping halfway into the left lane to flag down an approaching taxi.

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course he was jealous,” I said, wincing at the realization I’d bartered two Hannahs for a dress Lark had worn in public for mere minutes. Damn that Sandro Montevecchi.

“Are you positive?”

“What else could it be?”

She pondered the question for a moment, then sighed happily. “Then I was right to leave the party. I’ll apologize, and he’ll calm down, and then everything will be okay.”

Sure it will,
I thought.
For Sandro.

Lark unfastened the diamond bracelet and handed it to me before getting into the cab. “Tell Vivian thanks again!”

Yeesh,
I thought, watching her wave goodbye from the rear window.
At least when I’d squandered my future on a married man, I’d done it with a nice guy.

I looked at my watch and was sure it had stopped. Could it really be only half past six?

Of course it could. I’d barely had time to finish my glass of champagne.

I pulled out my phone and called Hank on my way to the L train stop on Fourteenth Street.

“Don’t tell me that party’s over already,” he said when he picked up.

“Oh, it’s over, all right.”

“Does that mean you’re coming down?”

“As soon as I change clothes.”

The first thing I did when I arrived home was secrete Vivian’s bracelet in the toe of a sock, which I buried in the bottom of my hamper. I couldn’t bear the thought of going downstairs and telling her how the evening had played out; the diamonds would be safe until morning. I added my party outfit to the top of the pile, then turned on the computer.

Gridmeister was at it again:

“No more excitement,” I said, dispatching his email to the trash and grabbing my keys.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A HOT DOG MAKES ME LOSE CONTROL

T
he happy prospect of spending the holiday with my brother and Hank further strengthened my resolve to avoid Billy in the week leading up to Christmas. And I nearly managed to pull it off—but not without a great deal of typing. A few days after the gallery party, a final grid arrived in my in-box, along with a note: “Let’s get together and clue this thing.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I wrote back.

“What did I do?”

“Wreaked havoc on my equilibrium.”

“You have no idea how pumped I am to hear that.”

And so on. This guy was making my insides melt, even though his use of the word “pumped” did render me just the tiniest bit queasy. People in my peer group tended to use the word as a verb, not an adjective.

Eventually I convinced Billy to let me compose the initial set of clues remotely, but just this once. According to him, crossword construction software was required to produce puzzles in the proper format. “But don’t worry,” he wrote. “I’ll burn a copy of the program and give it to you when we get together to go over the finished product.”