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We followed the crowds there, where tables, a stage, and a live band were set up for the event. Black-tied servers scurried around with trays of food and champagne. Everything was elegant, tasteful, and bright, and also screamed of wealth.
Maurice almost immediately found someone he knew and quickly abandoned the three of us against the wall. I could see now why an event like this was more likely to be held at a private residence than a grand hotel room. These were some of the richest people in New England, even the world. Their homes were nicer than any hotel, and no doubt potential backroom dealing would require privacy that wouldn't be found at the Ritz.
"Are you all right?" Janette asked beside me.
My fingers clenched on Eric's sleeve, and I stood, frozen. Fitting, really, since I'd basically been styled exactly like several of the mock-Greek statues around the room's perimeter.
"I don't know what I'm doing here," I admitted.
It was like being in the showroom of Tiffany's, full of diamonds. That's what wealth actually did to people, I realized: it created a blinding veneer. It wasn't just the jewelry, although there was plenty of that. The diamond earrings I had borrowed from Janette were actually ridiculously understated.
Everything about these people seemed to glitter. Their clothes, sumptuous and tailored, weren't sewn from cheap poly-blends, but lavish silks and charmeuse. Their skin gleamed with high-quality skin products and dermatological treatments. Their nails were freshly manicured, their hair blown out, their teeth whitened and capped. Faces pulled taught, wrinkles erased, cheeks plumped. They walked about the room with the grace and confidence of people who know the world was under their control.
Suddenly I was very, very grateful that Janette had insisted on the shopping trip.
"Is that one of the Red Sox?" I wondered aloud.
Beside me, Eric nodded. "Johnny Caron. Solid stats this year."
"Brandon's a fan," I murmured, thinking first that I should get his autograph for him, then realizing how ridiculous that was when in this room, Brandon was just as famous as the man, or more.
Janette watched with a gaze that looked almost hungry. "Maurice is trying to get him to invest. I should go introduce myself." And with that, she disappeared through the crowd, slippery as a fish.
"You should drink something," Eric said. "Immediately."
He snagged me a glass of the cheap champagne that had been circulating on trays. I tipped it back in one go.
"There you go," Eric said after putting down his own and grabbing two more from another passing server. He handed me one. "Takes the edge off, doesn't it?"
"How did you do this all the time?" I gasped after downing the second one. The bubbles fizzed in my stomach, calming and amplifying my nerves at the same time. I needed to burp, but at least I didn't want to throw up anymore.
"Oh, my liver has built up a good tolerance over the years."
"No, I mean this." I waved my hand at the opulent buzz. "These people. Talking to them. Everyone judging."
Eric shrugged. "They're like cats. Act like you love them, they'll treat you like shit. Treat them like shit, and they'll worship the ground you walk on."
"Is that where you learned your game?" I wondered, noticing already how some of the younger women were looking at Eric. "I can go find our table. I don't want to cramp your style."
To my surprise, Eric scowled. "These are the last kinds of women I will ever get involved with again," he said vehemently. "They are the worst. Manipulative bitches, all of them."
"Wow, that's a first. I've never known you to pass on available tail." Coincidentally, I'd also noticed that he had spent every night of the last two weeks alone in his bedroom, home every night by ten. "I don't suppose that has anything to do with a certain best friend of mine, does it?"
The champagne was starting to get to me.
"Please," Eric scoffed. "I know where I stand there. Jane thinks of me as a walking vibrator. No more, no less."
I watched him thoughtfully, but his poker face gave away nothing. Hmm. Curious.
"So..." Eric looked down at me again with concern. "Your mother. What's she after?"
I blinked in surprise at his uncharacteristic directness.
"Cros," he said impatiently, "I grew up around people like these my entire life. I know when they want something, and your mother is looking at you like you're a piece of prime rib. What's she after?"
I shook my head, my face growing hot. "I really...I mean, you're probably right. But if I had to guess, I'd say redemption, maybe. She usually grows a temporary conscience about once every five years, pokes around my dad or me until she feels better about herself, and then splits."
Eric nodded, but his face was pensive as we watched Janette cozy up to a circle of attendees, most of them men.
