I was about to ask what Margaux was doing here—styling or shooting—just as we came to a stop in front of a gallery that, unlike the others, was not empty. In the middle of all the Renoirs and Manets and Monets and van Goghs, there was a photo shoot going on. Dressed in what looked vaguely like a school uniform, but was undoubtedly designer, was a model I recognized immediately, as she’d been on magazine covers and national campaigns and seemed to date a roving collection of sad-faced drummers—Kaya, no last name necessary. She was perched on what looked like an instrument case, and sitting next to her was a guy so gorgeous he could only also be a model, resting his elbows on a violin case on his lap and gazing at the camera. There was a photographer circling them, the camera clicking, and lights and round silver discs to bounce light everywhere.
It was a photo shoot at the Met, and somehow I was there for it. It was so outside my normal Friday night—so beyond what I’d thought tonight would be—that for a moment I just pulled Brad closer to me, drinking it all in, not entirely sure how I’d ended up here.
“Okay, hold,” the photographer said, lowering her camera and squinting into the viewfinder. She walked over to where a table had been set up by one of the benches—and a Picasso—with laptops on it, and people were sitting around it, peering at the screens. The models immediately relaxed, and Kaya said something that made the guy laugh. There was something in their clothes and props that looked… familiar somehow? Even though I wasn’t sure how that was possible.
“Matty?” We both looked over, and from the other side of the room, a brunette stepped forward—Margaux. A second later, she was running over to us in a topknotted blur. She launched herself at Matty, giving him a bear hug, then stepped back and looked at me, smiling in a wide-open way. “Stephanie!” she said. “And Brad, my darling!” She cuddled his face, and Brad turned his head to the side, like he was telling her where she should really be scratching him. “You’re here! This is so great.”
“It’s Stevie,” Matty corrected, nodding at me, and Margaux smiled even wider.
“Love it,” she said, reaching up and smoothing my hair back. “It suits you.” Margaux was a few inches shorter than Matty. She was willowy, with big, dark eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She had perfect blunt bangs, the ones that I knew Kat had been going for but hadn’t ever quite achieved. And as usual, she was dressed like a search result for cool beautiful girl vintage had just achieved sentience and come to life. And it didn’t seem contrived on her either. You actually felt like she’d be dressing this way even if it wasn’t in fashion. And that the stuff she wore wasn’t from Anthropologie, but had been most likely found in some market in Chefchaouen, which I hadn’t even known was a place, let alone a stunningly beautiful one, until I’d seen her there on Instagram last month.
She was wearing a whisper-thin patterned dress, gold flats with a buckle, like a very stylish pilgrim, and had stacks of metal and woven bracelets going up both wrists.
“You might have mentioned you were sending us to the Met,” Matty said, arching an eyebrow at her.
Margaux frowned. “I thought I did.” She shook her head. “Sorry, today has been crazy. This shoot, then organizing invites for this little get-together I’m throwing tonight…”
“This is amazing,” I said, finally finding my voice. I gestured to it all—models, clothes, lights, priceless art. “Really truly.”
Margaux beamed at me. “You like it?” she asked, her big eyes fixed on mine. “Because it was all my concept, and I had to fight for it in, like, every meeting for the last three months.…”
“What’s the concept?” Matty asked.
“It’s my spin on From the Mixed-Up Files,” Margaux said, and something clicked into place, like a puzzle piece.
“Yes!” I said, without realizing I was going to. “Sorry—I’ve been wondering why this all seemed so familiar.”
“What’s Mixed-Up Files?” Matty asked, looking from me to Margaux.
She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll get you a copy. It’s a classic. This brother and sister run away to the Met.”
“They come in on the train from Connecticut,” I said slowly, remembering. I’d always loved that because so few books took place in my state, let alone in suburban commuter towns like ours. “They take the train in together and then have adventures in New York.”
“Yes!” Margaux grinned at me. “See, Stevie gets it.”
“Margaux?” Zephyr was suddenly back, his tone now a lot more polite. He gestured at the guards in blazers by the doors. “They say the dog is a problem.”
“Brad?” she asked, scooping him up from me in one movement, smoothing his fluff down, and kissing him on the head. “He’s part of the shoot. Didn’t I say? Tell them to take it up with Anna if there’s still an issue.” Zephyr nodded, then hurried away.
“He’s part of the shoot?” Matty raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Well, maybe he is now,” Margaux said, scratching under his chin. “I’m Bradley LePom,” she said in an old-timey accent, waving Brad’s arm around. “Stick with me, kid. I’m gonna make you a star!” I bit my lip, trying not to laugh, and Margaux shrugged. “It works better if you picture him with a tiny cigar.” She smiled at both of us, then tipped her head to the side. “Not that I’m not happy to see you both, but remind me why you’re here?”
“You said you had Mallory’s keys,” Matty prompted. “Stevie got locked out, with Brad.…”
Margaux snapped her fingers. “Right! Come with me.” She led us out of the gallery and into the area that normally was just the space with a gift shop and bathrooms, water fountains and benches, but had been taken over as a kind of staging area. There were racks and racks of clothes, a curtained-off changing area, hair and makeup stations, a table with drinks and food. It was very impressive, and I was a little bit stunned that Margaux had been the one to make all this happen—that this all stemmed from her idea.
She tucked Brad in the crook of one arm, then picked up a big, soft-looking leather bag with the other. She dug around in it, then emerged triumphantly with a set of keys, an M key chain attached to them. She handed them to Matty with a flourish.
“Oh, wow,” I said, letting out a long breath. Was this long, strange night finally coming to an end? She could give me the key, I could head back to Mallory’s, return the dog, finally get my stuff, and go home. Which was, after all, what I wanted to do.
Right?
“Margs,” Matty said, turning the keys over in his hand, “these are my keys.”
“What?” I asked, all my happy, relieved feelings suddenly crashing down to earth.
“Really?” she asked, taking them back and turning them over. “Huh. I guess I should have labeled them or something.” Matty closed his eyes for a moment, like he was summoning patience. “What?” Margaux asked with a shrug. “Blame Mom for naming us all with the same letter.” She cuddled Brad’s face. “Who’s my good boy? Who’s my happy dog?”
“So you don’t have Mallory’s keys,” Matty said, in a tone I’d heard Joy use with her, like trying to pin down a butterfly. “Not even at home?”