“Yo, baby,” he grinned, twirling me around. “Why waste this gorgeous creature on some boring-as-shit fundraiser? Let’s go dancing.”
“Let’s just get this over with. Are you ready?”
“Get your coat.” He tilted his wine glass to drain it. When he saw me drape my camel coat over my arm, he froze. “Desert Mode should have sent over some fur.”
“They did. But there’s no way I’m going to take responsibility for a full-length mink. If some animal rights nut doused me with paint, I couldn’t pay for the repairs.”
“I’ll be responsible for the coat,” he said.
“It’s useless to argue,” I said, taking his arm. “How many times have you been able to change my mind?”
I can remember a few little victories,” he said, holding my camel coat for me. “But Pyrrhic victories, every one.”
I kissed his cheek as I went past on my way out the door. “Have I told you how nice you look?”
“Not yet.”
“You are elegant, Garth,” I said, taking his arm as we walked down the hall. “A credit to your sex.”
“Thank you.” He kissed the hand that I had tucked into his arm. “I brought the videotapes you wanted. They’re in the car.”
I don’t have words to tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
He bumped my shoulder. “Try.”
“I thought I just did.” I laughed.
“You’re a wordsmith. You can do better.”
“I’ll work on it,” I said. “Sorry I’m such miserable company. The whole idea of going to this party, even if it’s the only way I can get at Celeste, seems all wrong when I think about Emily. This dress makes me feel like an absolute ass.”
“Emily would get a kick out of your efforts on her behalf. You’re doing the right thing.”
“Did I forget to tell you how nice it is to see you again, Garth?”
“For some messages, you don’t need words.”
Garth’s latest car was a black Jaguar XJS with a buff-colored ragtop and chrome wire wheels. It little more than purred as he sliced through traffic along Sunset and down to Santa Monica Boulevard. “Thus Spake Zarathustra” blasted on quad speakers. I folded my coat across the gape-front of the dress, leaned into the smooth leather upholstery and tried to get into the spirit of things.
Garth pulled into the curved drive in front of the Century Plaza, taking his place in the line of limos and Rollses waiting to disgorge passengers. As we got out of the car, some paparazzi snuck past the attendants and took a few quick flash shots of us, just in case we were somebody. I wanted to tell him not to bother, but Spiro Agnew was walking in ahead of us, and his picture was taken, too. If he’s news, then so am I.
I recognized many of the faces in the receiving line. Though there was an abundance of designer gowns and Versate tuxes, I saw early on that this was definitely a B list of political and entertainment figures. Then, who could expect Madonna to show up to help raise funds with a woman who called for the censorship of rock lyrics? Big names or not, there were certainly plenty of big bucks, all of them from the Right side of the political aisle.
Celeste stood just outside the ballroom, under a bower of decorated Christmas pines, greeting arriving guests. Her dress was strapless red taffeta, simple and tasteful to set off the handfuls of baroque rubies that circled her neck. The exposed skin of her face and shoulders was magnificent, like polished white alabaster-smooth, hard and cold.
Stories from the old days were legion about Celeste dropping onto her back and spreading her legs for anyone who asked nicely. Male or female, straight and quick or kinky as hell, she had been an equal opportunity lay. Sex had been part of her politics, a rejection of traditional relationships that she said re-pressed women.
I looked at this latest incarnation of Celeste and could not imagine her fucking anyone or anything. Ever. She was the epitome of the frigid society matron. Never changing the degree of her smile, she greeted each guest by name, said something appropriately friendly, sent them along into the elaborately decorated ballroom.
I had been brazenly staring at her as we inched our way up the line, wondering what she would find to say to me. She had my hand in her light-as-a-butterfly grip before she realized who I was.
“Maggot!” she said, drawing back. “I had no idea you were coming.”
“Good to see you, Celeste,” I said. “I want to have a nice long chat.”
“Yes?” For the first time her smile flagged.
Her hand fell away from mine, but just seemed to hang there in midair until Garth caught it.
“Wasn’t it sweet of Maggie to come with me tonight?” he effused. “Couldn’t keep her away. She’s so involved with teens and drugs.”
I don’t know how Celeste read the remark, or how Garth intended it. She smiled a tight Bryn Mawr smile. “Lovely to see you, Maggot, so all grown up. We’ll find a quiet moment later, to catch up.”
“Until later, then,” I said as the people behind me pressed forward.
“What do you think?” Garth whispered in my ear as we went inside.
“She looks stoned,” I said. I wonder what they had to give her before she could show up tonight.”
“A little dope wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said. “Relax, Maggie. Emily wouldn’t care if you had just a little bit of fun.” “I’m working up to it, Garth. Stick with me.”
“Like glue.”
He stayed tight beside me as we walked through the room. We greeted people as they surged toward us, but didn’t merge with any of the little conversational clusters that beckoned us.
At the far end of the room, a full orchestra played waltzy music while half a dozen mirrored balls rotated over the crowded dance floor. The spangles on women’s dresses and their fresh-from-the-vault jewels caught the light until it hurt my eyes to look at them. I could hardly look down at my dazzley self.
That is not to say that others didn’t look at me. There was no way I could walk without showing a lot of thigh. Garth was loving it. As we walked toward the trays of Dom Perignon, I watched women look at me, at my hand on him, then up at his face with greedy interest. I hoped this was some payback for the help he had given me.
We had to wait until the stream of newcomers dwindled before Celeste was approachable. I gulped my second glass of champagne and started for her. T. Rexford Smith, the husband, got to her first and led her onto the dance floor.
“Do something,” I said to Garth.
We followed them. Shadowed them actually, trying to get close to our hosts. Garth took me in his arms and we wedged through the box-stepping crowd.
T. Rexford was an energetic if graceless dancer. We had to dodge some elbows, but Garth managed to get us inside, close enough to manipulate a partner swap. Since I was the one who wanted to speak with Celeste, I didn’t know what the point was of getting me into T. Rexford’s arms. I watched Garth float away with Celeste and hoped he remembered why we had come.
In my heels, I was three inches taller than T. Rex, making it difficult to follow his lead. He sweated a great deal, roamed with his hand down my back more than we were taught was accept-able at St. Catherine’s.
“I’m Maggie MacGowen,” I said, trying to keep my feet out from under his. “I’ve known your wife for a very long time.”
“Have you?” His hand dipped to my ass. I pulled back and twirled him by the fingertips in a wide pirouette. He rebounded off the couple next to us, spun back and clutched me against his round, ruffle-fronted tummy.
He grinned at me. “How many of the men in this room have you slept with?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t had time to look around much.”