“Well, soon you’ll receive your own invitations, and you won’t need to be escorted by the old man.”
I practically lunge for the door handle as soon as we pull up to the museum to free myself from this awkward car ride. I grab the two masks off the seat, one a basic black Zorro-style mask, and the white satin one with the gold horns. I slip the white one over my face and hand the other to Jamie.
A narrow hunter green carpet has been draped down the front steps of the museum, creating an exclusive pathway for the benefit-goers. Jamie slides on his mask and fumbles with his borrowed cuff links, as if he’s worried they’ll fall out. I hurry in front of him, ascending the stairs, periodically checking my Rolex. I can’t stand being late, and getting my son properly dressed took longer than expected. We arrive, finally, with just fifteen minutes left in the cocktail hour.
This is a philanthropic event filled with New York socialites. All the men are wearing tuxedos, and the younger women have on more jewelry than clothing. The masks range from cheap Halloween versions to massive feathered-and-bejeweled affairs held up on golden rods. The stick-thin plastic women are hard to differentiate, and all share the same manufactured smile. Hardly a natural face or body exists in my present company, but I’m scanning the party for one gorgeous creature in particular.
I navigate the crowd, stopping in for greetings among various groups.
“Hello, Senator,” I say, popping up behind an elderly gentleman who is not actually in politics and his much younger trophy wife. “And how is your daughter this evening?” I say, kissing her hand and smiling. He gives me a jovial slap on the shoulder and she looks at me through glazed, unfocused eyes.
The cocktail hour conversations all revolve around thinly veiled competition over whose child is the most accomplished—who has been accepted to which Ivy League school, who was offered a modeling contract with Ford.
Jamie follows me as I insert myself into small clusters of guests for quick shallow greetings. “Alysia,” I coo, wrapping my arm around the bare shoulder of a gaunt middle-aged heiress known to be desperately waiting for her father to die. “How beautiful you look this evening.”
She kisses both my cheeks and offers condolences for the loss of my ex-wife. I raise my finger to my lips and hush her before she can continue, pointing to Jamie by way of excuse. Jamie politely introduces himself, and she kisses both his cheeks, as well. Jamie wipes his face absentmindedly and we continue on our walk to the bar, so I can fetch something suitable to drink.
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