Oh, my gosh. I might get to speak to an actual Kardashian tonight.
Most of my job for the evening would be to stand beside Neil, smiling and nodding, and answering the occasional question. The answer was usually something along the lines of, “I’m very proud,” or “This is only the beginning.” They started to sound mind-numbingly similar before we even made it out of the press line and into the building. And, though my face was going numb from holding my smile and my brain was leaking out of my ears from mindlessly repeating myself, I truly was proud of Neil. He knew it, though he did seem amused as the questions became more and more redundant. I swear he liked watching me squirm.
At least it was warm enough for that kind of nonsense. There were outdoor heaters making wet little ho
les in the snow piling up on the sidewalk, and the crush of reporters helped block the January wind and blowing snow. I thanked a few of them for taking one for the team, before I realized how bourgeois I sounded.
As we neared the doors, Neil took my hand. I looked up at him. Nine years ago, I’d met the sexiest man I’d ever seen. In a single night, he’d changed who I was, and who I had planned to be. And, now, standing beside him at what was arguably his biggest triumph, I realized that I’d done the same for him.
When we finally made it into the atrium, I almost went blind from the bling. This room would never see so many diamonds again. At least, not until the next high-profile event. Everyone had dressed to impress, and in a crowd like this, with people with bank accounts in the eight digits and up, impressing was a difficult feat to pull off.
I squinted at a stunning blonde near the fountain. “Is that Billy Joel’s wife?”
“Sophie, can I take your coat?”
I turned to see another stunning blonde, who I nearly didn’t recognize. The only thing that gave her away was the gleaming silver necklace she’d borrowed from my mom.
“Penny! You look amazing!” I took her hands and held them out from her sides to examine her. The dress she wore was as nineteen-nineties as the necklace, more a sleek, form fitting tube of black velvet than a gown. Her bobbed hair was sculpted away from her face in a look that wasn’t quite slicked back, but definitely skirted that line. Her makeup was flawless, and her eyes weren’t red from crying, which was important; she and her boyfriend, Neil’s college buddy Ian, had broken up at Thanksgiving, and she was still taking it exceptionally hard. I scanned the room, looking for age-appropriate men I could hook her up with. Then again, maybe hooking her up with an age-inappropriate man before meant I wasn’t allowed to hook her up with anybody, anymore.
She reached up to self-consciously touch her hair. “You don’t think it’s a little too Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-Instinct?”
“Oh, it definitely is, but that’s not a bad thing.” In fact, it might be a look we’d want to explore in an upcoming issue. I was digging the early 90’s femme fatale vibe.
“Your phone?” Neil reminded me quietly, handing Penny his coat. As glam as she was tonight, she was on the clock.
“Right, my phone.” I reached into my purse and handed my cell to her. “Purse can get checked with the coat, I don’t care, but keep my phone on you, okay?”
“It wouldn’t have killed you to take one night off, darling,” Neil said tersely and under his breath.
I gave him a pass because he was nervous.
He was right, though. I could have just left my phone at home, because there was never a down time to check it. The bars were open, hot hors d’oeuvres were on offer, and waiters circulated with the cold ones. Everyone wanted to talk to the man they would be throwing their money at later, but Neil managed to break away from the schmoozing for a minute to take me for a turn around the floor with the other couples dancing to the accompaniment of the band.
“Sophie!”
I turned to see my best friend, Holli, dragging her wife, my business partner, Deja, across the dance floor. A standout as always, Holli wore a floor-length dress of amethyst organza, the deep neckline plunging from the halter back to the thick sequined band at her natural waist.
“So, that’s why you needed the double-sided tape,” I said, gesturing to her chest as she approached. “I hope you really battened down the hatches.”
“It’s not like a titty’s going to just flop out,” she grumbled, self-conscious as always about her flat chest. “But, yes, everything is secure. I won’t embarrass the Englishman.”
“Good. Because he’s worried enough as it is.” I glanced over to where Neil stood with two other dudes in tuxedos. They were all laughing loudly at something I would probably not find terribly funny.
I was so glad Holli and Deja were there to hang out with me.
Deja had already shown me the dress she’d planned to wear, since it had been delivered via courier just days ago. It was a black Ziad Nakad gown with a starched, structured boat-neck top that angled into points of fabric above her shoulders. The bodice was detailed with flashes of gold, and the skirt clung to her legs and ass like Catwoman’s suit before flaring out into a wide skirt from her knees. “Holy shit, you look amazing!”
“I told you I could make it work,” She said, tossing the half-bob on the side of her head she hadn’t shaved, yet.
“So, is this open bar?” Holli asked with an impatient wiggle. “Cash bar?”
“Open. This is more of a ‘thank you for your money’ party than a ‘give us your money’ party.” I frowned. “No, wait. It’s kind of both.”
“‘Thank you for your money, now give us more of it, but here’s free booze?’” Deja suggested, and I laughed.
Even though gala fundraisers weren’t exactly my choice of party, with my friends there, it wasn’t so bad. I got a little break from being the trophy wife, every now and then, and they kept me apprised of which celebrities were there. They were also awesome about stepping back and giving me space when Neil did need me on his arm, whether to introduce me to someone or to bring me into a conversation with an important donor. When those obligations were fulfilled, there were Holli and Deja, waiting to get back to partying.
While Holli and I were dancing to a big-band version of Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing”—Neil seriously needed to fire whoever had been in charge of entertainment for the evening—Deja skidded up to us and whispered, “Courtney Cox just went into the ladies’ room!”