“Probably,” I say.
I see Greg make his way to one of the cocktail stations. A server, a skinny brunette, passes him and thrusts out a tray of crackers heaped with rare beef. Greg stares at the red offering, then shakes his head. The server’s eyes stay on him after he walks away.
“Might wander around, then,” Kevin says.
As if he senses my own gaze, Greg spots me and waves.
“No. Wait,” I say, turning and taking a step closer to Kevin. “Stick with me. I’ll take you to a party with the crew that built the show.”
“Right on,” he says eagerly.
Now the crowd is spilling past every guardrail and curb of the decorated urban cave with their leather and perfume and expectations. The guests are milling and staring, holding red cards with their assigned dinner seats. The more people who enter, the bigger this space feels, the higher the girdered ceiling, like we’ll never be enough to fill it. The vast scale reminds me of old cathedrals—the architecture made to dwarf us, to remind us of our insignificance, no matter how many we are. This will be the party everyone dreamed of. The guests will start to notice the smaller touches—the trails of scarlet rose petals over every folded napkin, the Hitchcockian soundtrack the DJ is playing. They’ll line up for snapshots around the stop sign. But soon the novelty of the space will wear off. They’ve come to see Kim Lord and her new show, and to be seen seeing it. So where is she? Where is she?
I keep my head turned from Greg. I should be saying something clever to hold Kevin’s attention, I should be taking his arm and leading him around, but suddenly I’m struck by the fear that everything we’ve made tonight—everything Kim Lord made—is spinning on the same sick fascination that she spoke against in her press release. That beneath all these layers of pleasure and provocation are women who were slaughtered.
4
Ke-vin!” shrieks a voice. “Kevin Rhys! What on earth are you doing here?”
I have never been so glad to see Thalia Thalberg in my life. Actually, I’ve never been glad to see her at all. She’s the chair of the Rocque’s Young Collectors Club, and her life’s work—being rich and spending her money in elegant but fussy ways—puts her in a caste of people who bear as much resemblance to ordinary human beings as fur coats to the animals from which they were flayed. Nevertheless, to my relief she grabs Kevin’s arm and twirls him toward her and her formidable attire, which looks like a tutu made from shredded sandwich bags.
“Just here on assignment,” mumbles Kevin.
“Mindy’s new magazine?”
“Yeah,” Kevin says with a sheepish glance at me.
“Fantastic.” Thalia’s eyes rake up and down my torso. “How is Mindy?”
“Busy,” says Kevin. “Have you met Maggie?”
Of course she has. But she won’t remember.
“I work in Communications.” I extend my hand and shake Thalia’s. Her fingers are the texture of thawing shrimp. “I’m showing Kevin around. How do you two know each other?”
“We went to school together in New York,” Thalia says, and mentions some expensive-sounding academy. “And Kevin’s father was my history teacher.”
“Faculty brat, that’s me,” Kevin says wearily.
Thalia wants to know what Kevin thinks of the Gala, and I’m expecting some glib version of the observations we’ve been hearing all around us, how cool it is to see the gritty street and the glamorous party together at once, but Kevin seems to take her question seriously. He knits his brow and scans the scene as if he just noticed it.
I wait awkwardly beside Thalia, trying to think of one thin sentence of small talk to screw into the impassable social wall between us.
Thalia touches her brunette bob. “Oh, come on, Kevin. It’s not an exam.”
“Well,” he says finally, “I’ve seen the lions and the otters, and the panda was cool. But I can’t find the aye-aye house, and I’ve heard they’ve got this creepy long finger for picking out fruit. I really want to see that.”
“You are too funny,” Thalia says in a blank tone, then waves at someone over my shoulder. “I’ve got to introduce someone to Lynne,” she says. “I’ll see you later, okay? Nice to meet you, Mary.”
Kevin squints after her, shaking his head.
“Non sequiturs are the only way to get rid of her,” he mutters, but he sounds bothered by the exchange.
I’m about to ask why when I see Greg. Alone again, walking the rim of the cocktail area, where the wall breaks for the museum’s loading dock. Greg’s never alone at parties. He instantly finds a group and joins, hands in his pockets, head bucked back for a ready guffaw. A camera flashes near him and he cringes.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Bas booms from the stage in the middle of the dinner tent. “Please take your seats for dinner.”
Around us, conversation ceases, and people start cutting and weaving toward the tent, talking about their table numbers. Greg starts heading our way, and Kevin looks lost in the swirl of pushy, ageless ladies desperate to know their social standing. So I grab Kevin’s hand.
“Follow me,” I say. “You’ll want to get your seat before all the paparazzi take them.”
His fingers, surprisingly dry and strong, grip mine back. Suddenly we’re not doing that light-steering social touch—we’re actually holding hands, the gesture more intimate than I intended. My heart starts thumping, and I try not to trip in the boots that have been squeezing my feet to throbbing hooves. Kevin hunches forward as if he’s ready to tackle anyone who impedes us.
I drop Kevin’s fingers when we reach the dinner tent and it gets too tight to move in tandem. We pass Janis Rocque—affectionately known in-house as J. Ro—heir to the Rocque fortune and her father’s floundering private museum. Tonight she looks distinctly uncomfortable in her sea-green suit and coils of brown hair. J. Ro likes being at the center of things, but she hates the spotlight and she must be getting worried about our missing guest of honor by now. After her trails an expressionless Nelson de Wilde, and Lynne after him, checking the watch on her slender wrist. It’s six o’clock. The caterers have lined up with the salad plates.
On the other side of the tables, the crowd opens and I turn back for Kevin. I don’t know what expression I’m wearing, but it seems to silence him.
“You can find a seat over there,” I blurt, showing him the tables reserved for the media, where photographers are now sitting with their cameras and peering around like meerkats. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”
I point to the back entrance of the dinner tent, where Jayme and I will perch at an unbouqueted white table with other Rocque staff members and our laptops, pretending we don’t need to eat. I can feel Kevin’s eyes on me as I limp away.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bas repeats, “I’d like to welcome you to the Rocque’s Gala for 2003, a street party literally in the street. Any traffic violations will be prosecuted by the board …” He pauses for some faint, forced laughter. “Before we tuck into this delicious dinner and begin the extraordinary evening we have planned, I have a brief announcement. Our Gala honoree and the star of the evening, Kim Lord, has been delayed.”
A murmur of concern rises from the crowd.
Bas holds up his hands. “She will arrive quite soon, and I can assure you that her paintings are already here, and they are devastating. Here’s some advance praise from the New York Times, just in: ‘Kim Lord’s eleven portraits and one monumental still life are the product of years of examining the lives, deaths, and media coverage of murdered women, but they are also a statement about painting, how alive it is, how it can still challenge the dominion of photography in our age.’”
Clapping interrupts him.