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After Emmett’s visit, my life continued on as if he weren’t in Boston. One night, I joined a group of forced acquaintances for an early dinner; I worked my usual shifts at Morgan’s; I volunteered at the YMCA, teaching art classes to children; I slipped into a designer dress and accompanied my grandmother to the Boston Ballet. We watched My Obsession, a collection of four ballets that explore the devotion and passion of lovers. I could barely sit still as I watched the dancers move on stage, their sinewy muscles so provocatively on display in their nude-colored costumes. I’m almost surprised my grandmother allowed me to stay through the entire performance. I could tell she hated it, that prim and proper look of disapproval likely to stay put for a full twenty-four hours.
I, however, loved it. I would have sat through it all over again as soon as it finished. More, more, more. I stood with the rest of the audience to give a round of applause, and after, as guests started to trail toward the theater exits, I looked down from the box we were perched in and froze. Emmett was there in the crowd, walking with a blonde woman. She looked pretty in her fitted navy dress. Her long curly hair tumbled down her back. They seemed, if not officially a couple, definitely headed in that direction. He dropped his hand to the small of her back to lead her through the sea of people, and I fought against my throat closing tight, emotion fighting to surface.
My grandmother was oblivious to my sighting. “We should go. I have no plans to stay for the reception. Whomever is allowing these choreographers to come in and display such overtly crass—”
I ignored her and leaned over the side of the balcony to keep sight of Emmett until the very last second. It afforded me a perfect view of his smile aimed at the blonde woman by his side, those prominent dimples meant for someone else.
Look up, I begged in my head.
He disappeared through the lobby doors, and my hands slipped off the railing as I turned and let the suited attendant lead my grandmother and me out of her reserved box. I walked through the opera crowd dutifully by her side and slid into the car waiting out by the curb. The heavy door slammed shut behind us.
In the last few weeks, Royce has been away on work. I should miss him, I think, but I’ll see him soon enough, in Italy, in fact. We’re traveling to a sprawling villa on the western shore of Lake Como to celebrate the 60th birthday of Victor Sainsbury, my grandmother’s good friend. He’s a well-connected Manhattanite who seems to know anyone and everyone. He sits on the board at MoMA, served as president of Christie’s for fifteen years, and is universally known as the most prominent contemporary art collector in the world.
From talking with my grandmother, I know the guest list for the week-long celebration will be modest in number. There won’t be anyone as tacky as a Hollywood celebrity or a social media influencer. No one will be posing for selfies or posting to their feeds. This is about discrete power. Royalty, moguls, the upper crust of the upper crust.
I obviously don’t belong, but here I am, in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, sitting across from my grandmother. One of the wheels hits a divot in the road and we sway deeply to the right. I fear we might tip over, which is why I yelp and grab ahold of my seat.
My grandmother doesn’t bat an eyelash as we trudge on.
I sigh and release my death grip. “It’s a little theatrical, don’t you think?”
She inspects the plush blue velvet interior with unadulterated lust in her eyes. “It’s marvelous, straight out of the 1800s. Every detail is perfection.”
“How did Mr. Sainsbury manage to get his hands on so many antique carriages?”
“He commissioned them. It was my idea, actually. It took over two years to create the small fleet that will be used for the party, and once our week here is over, they’ll go up for auction at Christie’s London. One has already pre-sold to the National Gallery.”
The carriages are merely the last in a long line of transportation we’ve used within the last twelve hours. A private plane took us from Boston to Milan, where a hired car was waiting to drive us to Como. There, we paused for breakfast before continuing our journey to the Swiss-facing side of Lake Como. At our destination, we were stopped at a large gate and met by the fleet of carriages. A host of matching attendants in dark blue damask-patterned suits hurried to collect our luggage and offer us refreshment. I turned down the glass of champagne, and as we roll over yet another divot along the path, I’m glad I did. My dress would not have survived.
