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When I arrive to the auditorium on campus, I find the room less filled than I would have hoped. It’s a pity considering Zerner was such a pioneer of art history, specifically pertaining to the Renaissance. At least there are some of us in attendance tonight, and I’m sure there will be a few more last-minute arrivals as well.
I went out on a limb and invited Collette to attend the lecture with me. She’s already here, sitting in the front row alongside another woman I don’t recognize until I walk up the aisle and catch sight of her profile.
I stop mid-stride. If I weren’t so excited to hear Zerner’s lecture, I’d do an about-face and walk right out of the room.
Collette sees me and waves me over. I slide past a few seated guests, reluctantly taking the free seat on her left.
“Hey! Lainey, have you met Miranda? She’s a friend of mine. I bumped into her last minute and invited her to come with.”
I look over and meet Miranda’s gaze. She’s stunning up close. Her brown eyes are so light, almost caramel. Her blonde hair is sleekly styled, and she wears a pop of red lipstick that suits her complexion perfectly.
“No, not officially, but I feel like I know you from everything I’ve heard.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Oh? Strange. I can’t place you. Are you from St. John’s? I went to Simmons, in Connecticut.”
I find it hard to believe she doesn’t know who I am. I can’t discern whether she’s acting or not, her smile so convincing, but seeing as she was with Emmett the morning after news broke about our betrothal (and perhaps the night of as well), there’s no chance she missed it.
“Yeah, Lainey was at St. John’s, though she’s a few years younger than us. She works with me at Morgan Fine Art Gallery, and oh my god, duh, she’s engaged to Emmett.”
Miranda’s smile doesn’t move an inch. “Yes, of course.” Then she chuckles as if Collette’s just said something funny. “Congratulations.”
My stomach twists as I nod, and then I turn toward the stage.
Throughout the duration of the lecture, my focus is a moving target. I doubt I catch half of what Zerner says, which is incredibly annoying. I’m in a bad mood when he wraps up and invites everyone out into the foyer for refreshments and further discussion.
“I wish I could stay,” Miranda says, fetching her coat from the back of her chair. “But I’m actually headed to a late dinner. I don’t want to keep my date waiting.”
Her taunting gaze meets mine, and her intent is crystal clear; she’s going to meet Emmett.
I ensure my smile is sugary sweet as I reply, “Have a great time!”
But that’s the extent of my ability to pretend. I skip out on the refreshments and instead head out into the cold night, perturbed that it’s started to snow again.
Two weeks later, the warm afternoon light filters in through the curtains in my grandmother’s sitting room. A fire crackles calmly in the fireplace. Jacobs pours tea for four using my grandmother’s solid silver antique Reed & Barton tea set, which she purchased at auction last year for an amount equaling a small nation’s entire GDP.
We’re entertaining guests. A short while ago, Diana arrived at my grandmother’s house with her granddaughter, Victoria, in tow. Only a few years older than me, Victoria is everything my grandmother would love me to become. On paper, we share many of the same qualities: boarding school bred, Ivy League educated, worldly, sophisticated, polished—but Victoria exudes confidence. Where she goes, the world follows. She’s always right in the thick of things at the parties and soirees we attend, running the show, whereas I’m so often hanging on the fringes. Our paths rarely cross, though she’s nice enough on occasions like this when we’re forced into each other’s company because of our grandmothers.
For the last fifteen minutes, Victoria has been chatting away, regaling us with stories of her life recently. A silly mishap with a London milliner. A horrible blind date she endured with a Swedish shipping heir. An “amazing” spiritual workshop she just finished in Bali. Her friend, Kate Hudson, invited her to attend.
I listen and sip my tea, nodding when appropriate, trying and failing to give a damn.
Perhaps she can sense the fact that she’s losing me because she leans in and waggles her brows. “Oh! I can’t be-lieve I haven’t told you this yet—do you know who I saw last night?”
A pregnant pause follows, and I realize I’m supposed to actually guess.
“K-Kate Hudson?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, silly. Emmett was at Number 9 Park with a lovely blonde. I was sitting just one table over from them, but I didn’t catch his companion’s name. Maybe you know her? She was on the taller side, and I feel like I’ve seen her around town lately. She was slender, with short hair. She had this great vintage Chanel bag that I almost asked her about. Anyway, is she a friend of yours?”
