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“Umm…I met my downstairs neighbor earlier.”
Because she came up to pound on my door and yell at me to turn my TV down. I don’t even own a TV so that was…fun.
“Look at you, putting yourself out there. I’m proud.”
I restrain a snort as I lean forward to apply my lipstick and my breasts nearly topple out of the dress. If Sonya only knew how much I wasputting myself out there.
“Listen, I gotta go, Son. My dinner just got delivered.”
LIAR!
“Okay, call me tomorrow if you’re bored. Wesley’s playing golf with Cooper all day so I’ll just be lying around.”
“Will do. Okay, bye!”
After I hang up, I run around my apartment, slipping into my high heels, stowing my lipstick in my clutch, and trying to adjust the square neckline on my dress for a little more modesty. It doesn’t work, but I don’t have time to keep worrying about it.
The gala is supposed to start any minute, and it’s imperative that I beat Alexander there. The children’s hospital is hosting it at the Four Seasons near the New England Aquarium, and the traffic getting over there is a nightmare. I try to sit still in the back seat of the Uber, but it’s hard to keep my foot from tapping anxiously. I keep darting glances at the clock on the dashboard. The female driver meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and smiles.
She has the good sense not to drag me into conversation. I’m sure she can feel the waves of anxiety wafting off me.
Cars line the entrance to the hotel, and I’m disheartened by the step-and-repeat, photographers, and security guards manning a few key choke points. Whatever small hope I had of sneaking in undetected is extinguished; it just won’t be possible. I’ll have to go through with my ridiculous plan.
I thank the driver and tell her there’s no need to pull up any further. I can walk faster than the cars and limos inching along at a snail’s pace.
I get out, adjust my dress so everything is exactly in place, and then lift my head and pretend I belong. It’s easy enough to do. Confident steps, raised chin, shoulders back. When someone peers at me, I offer a small smile, but otherwise, I keep it moving. I’m on a mission.
At the first checkpoint, they ask to see my license. I hand it over then voluntarily add that I’m a guest of Alexander Mercier. The person—an intern, no doubt, judging by how young she is—doesn’t even care about what I’ve said. She takes down my information on a mini iPad, hands me back my license, and is already motioning for the next guest before I’ve even moved. I keep walking, up the red carpet, shielding my face from the flashing cameras. No one is dying for a photo of me. There are influencers and TV personalities in attendance, professional athletes and prominent Bostonians. It’s easy enough for me to sneak by unnoticed while everyone else vies for media attention.
At the door of the hotel, another staff member stands, armed with an iPad.
“Name?” she asks, not bothering to look up as I approach.
“Emelia Mercier.”
She scrolls and scrolls, doubles back, then frowns.
A small line starts to form behind me. I stand perfectly still, confident in my ability to pull this off.
“I’m sorry…I don’t see your name here.”
Now this is what I was expecting at the first checkpoint, and though I hate to do it, I proceed as planned with a huff of annoyance.
“I already spoke with the woman back there. I’m a guest of Alexander Mercier.”
My words are haughty and clipped. I’ve never spoken to anyone like this in my life, and inside, I’m cringing.
“I understand. Unfortunately, I don’t see you here on my list. With so many guests in attendance tonight, we want to make sure everything is as secure as possible.”
I.e. we want to make sure riffraff like you don’t sneak their way in.
“Is this a joke?”
I’m taking a gamble here. The way I see it, I had two options: play the innocent, plead with smiles and kindness,orbulldoze my way in with false bravado and entitlement.
“Could I see your ID please?”
