“And what’s your inspiration?” she asked.
“You know, life,” Anna said before reconsidering. Jesus, Anna, she scolded herself, focus! “We are all so lucky to live here in this city, surrounded as we are by so much of everything. My life is very . . . colorful and disparate, like so many New Yorkers’. So is my work.”
“OK, well, thanks,” the reporter said, indicating that Anna could move along. She chastised herself for blowing her chance to say something intelligent about her work. Then Ilana was there, pulled out of basketball practice to come to the ball. Her smile beamed across the red carpet. She wore a navy halter dress and a delicate necklace of paper flowers. Anna peeled off from Max and went to greet her.
“Hi!” Anna said, and hugged her gingerly to avoid the flowers.
“This is crazy,” Ilana said, eyeing the crowds over Anna’s shoulder.
“Great necklace,” Anna said, eyeing the pristine edges and the careful watercolor.
“I made it.”
And then Max was there too. “How about a picture?” he asked Ilana, who was all too happy to oblige. As she stepped in front of the hot, bright lights, Max started shouting, “This is a student from the school! PS 342! Ilana Ruiz!” She was a natural, her pose strong and confident, her hair a glorious espresso wave. Ilana’s necklace, a skilled and inspired piece of art, spoke to the talent of the school’s students.
“Oh shit.” Max blurred past her toward a very annoyed-looking Mrs. Von Bizmark, who sneered at none other than Vivienne Lanuit, the terribly French Vogue reporter. Anna rushed over. Mrs. Von Bizmark showed signs of wear. “Well, why do you think we chose Figaro?” she sniped at Lanuit, who wore exactly the same black cuffs, long hair, and relentless cheekbones. Her silver sequined sheath would look terrible on anyone else. “I don’t like the insinuation that there’s something going on here tonight that escapes my understanding. I have a graduate degree in art history. That said, I shouldn’t have to spell everything out. Let the art speak, for goodness’ sake! Let events speak! Let the opera speak! It is your job to make meaning out of it.” Max looked like he might faint. In the ten seconds Anna was distracted, somehow things had gone off the rails. Amused, Lanuit finished jotting this down and murmured, “Merci beaucoup.”
Anna stuck like glue to Max for the rest of press, distracted only briefly by Miranda Chung in a black geometric Japanese frock and platform Stella McCartney sneakers. Her characteristic black bob and bold red lips matched this evening, with rimless glasses and white mascara. She looked like something out of a Missy Elliott video, despite being middle aged and of Chinese descent. She posed for only ten seconds and flew inside, jet silk floating behind her.
Julie reappeared in the press tent as Mrs. Von Bizmark began her final interview. It was almost showtime. The entire staff would be accommodated in various empty seats, which so far included two critical spots behind the Von Bizmarks and the mayor. The prince and his date, whom the seats had been reserved for, had yet to show. Worst case: they could move Martha Miller and her husband. As Julie filled her in, Anna vaguely wondered if she could somehow escape the opera. Perhaps she could get away with lingering at the bar in the lobby?
“Anna, is that”—Julie snapped her out of her reverie, drawing Anna’s attention to the step and repeat—“the prince?” All by himself. He waved at the public as he strode the red carpet like he came home to one every night.
“Where’s his date?” Anna asked. Only three minutes from curtain with a critical empty seat in the Von Bizmark box. Martha Miller would not be likely to abandon her itchy husband, even for a dashing Italian prince. The lights in the lobby blinked. Max interrupted the final interview to hurry Mrs. Von Bizmark inside.
Julie shrugged. “I already have a seat,” she said, with her ticket and a lopsided smile. The opera would start at any moment. The prince paused on the step and repeat, a convincing grin on his tan face. He was way more handsome in person. Everyone else was inside already. As the prince sailed past, he met Anna’s eye—at the very last second, he winked at her before slipping inside. “It’s not like we can leave that spot empty, right?”
“I guess I’m sitting here,” Anna said, sliding into the red velvet seat next to Prince Valdobianno, who exuded waves of sexual magnetism like some sort of really low, subaudible bass. His handshake felt like an embrace. “Anna,” she said.
“Salvatore,” he said.
“A pleasure,” she said and then sat, keeping her gaze straight ahead but feeling his eyes on her like a warm light on her cheekbone. With a nervous tremor, Anna realized the prince was not one to just sit there in silence.
“I love this opera,” he said congenially. “You?”
“Actually,” Anna said, unexpectedly eager to announce information about herself, “I’m the artist. The pieces on stage are mine.”
As if on cue, the curtain went up, and they turned their eyes forward, where a single spotlight illuminated her illustration of Julie’s black-and-white lips. As the music swelled, this light brightened steadily, revealing more and more of the set, more and more of Anna’s work. It was thrilling from Anna’s vantage point in the box to watch hundreds of people see her art for the first time.
The prince leaned over close enough that Anna could feel his breath on the inside of her ear. “I like your work,” he whispered. “A lot.”
The exuberant overture swooped Anna up, and she found herself bouncing along in her seat. She had heard this so many times in the months of planning; it was like she could anticipate each note in her belly. But this gusto quickly dissipated as each song seemed to repeat itself over and over before terminating. Time slowed. Anna eyed the prince, who was wholly enraptured by the music, the stage, and the performance. He even laughed a few times.
By the time intermission blessedly arrived, Anna was desperate to move. She excused herself, leaving the prince with the Von Bizmarks and the mayor, and ran to the bathroom, where she smacked directly into petite Bloom coming out. Anna’s chin crushed her cloud of red hair, which Bloom quickly repoufed.
“Anna!” Bloom greeted her with a swift double kiss.
“Bloom,” Anna said with a distinct chill.
“Come on, kid. Your art looks great up there.” Bloom grinned at her. “No hard feelings, right?” But she was gone before Anna could say another word, all five feet of her stomping off in stilettos.
If the first act was long, the second half of the opera felt interminable. Like purgatory. Anna made a game out of not looking at her watch until she thought ten minutes had passed, but when she finally glanced, it had been only four. Crestfallen, Anna let her mind wander ahead to the art, the sale, the future, Adrian. She hoped he would accept her apology without making her grovel too much. But she couldn’t think about that yet. Anna fervently hoped that the auction would make maybe $25,000 total for the school. That would be a good chunk of the balance, and the city would make up the rest anyway. $25,000 was something after all! If it even got that high . . .
Loud noise. Anna jerked awake as the theater erupted in applause. The opera was over, and she had been fully asleep for at least, oh Jesus. Anna clapped and leaped to her feet, looking up at the prince—did he know? He looked back at her, a devilish, sexy grin on his face. Of course he knew! He was sitting right next to her.