The Blessed (33 page)

Something was happening.

Cecilia looked out in pain, at the mosh pit, but she didn’t see people—only pieces of them through her winces—hands, teeth, tattoos, elbows, hair, shoes.

She moaned in agony, getting verbal lashes from the crowd, typical of an otherworldly performance, and physical lashes from what seemed like thin air.

Lash after lash, whip after whip, she endured it in front of everyone. It was as if she was being beaten up by her own self. An invisible Inquisitor.

Tied to the whipping post

Tied to the whipping post

Good Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’

Singing those words was the last thing she remembered.

Cecilia woke up.

On the roof next to Bill.

“What happened?” she asked desperately. “What is happening?”

“Things are different now,” he replied.

“I have to leave here,” she said.

“I know,” he began. “What can I do for you?”

Cecilia gathered up some of her costumes that she had hanging to dry in an air duct vent and shoved them into her
guitar case before disappearing down the stairs.

“You can write it all down.”

7
The Brooklyn Museum Gala, or “Da Ball” as insiders called it, was the social event of the year in the borough. Lucy never missed the opportunity to walk the red carpet, and this year was no exception. With Jesse in the House of D, Lucy went stag, which felt strange. They’d gone to the event together for the last few years—it guaranteed her coverage and him a ticket. It also guaranteed her someone to talk to. She was getting to be one of the best-known faces in town, but not the most popular.

She wasn’t sure how her recent “hiatus” would be perceived, but the key to being a successful
It Girl
was to never miss an important function. No. Matter. What. It was an obligation she had. To herself. Attending this event would be like getting back on the horse in the most public way. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted going forward, so sticking to what she knew best seemed like the right thing to do.

The show must go on, she figured. And for Lucy it went on in an haute couture John Galliano black silk taffeta gown—off the shoulder with fitted corset and billowy bottom of intricate black taffeta swirls and train. Her face was flawless—pale and plain, even her lips were patted with concealer like the rest of her face, all except for her eyes, which were covered from top to bottom with pink shadow, camouflaging the slight discoloration that remained from the wax burns in the chapel while, at the same time,
creating the next high-fashion trend. Besides, she wouldn’t be the first girl to walk the red carpet who looked like she’d just had a peel.

Lucy’s reasons for attending were more than selfish or self-promotional for a change. She’d offered herself to be auctioned off for charity at the gala dinner, an excellent way to meet influential people, she’d thought initially. But now, given the devastation from the storm, and everything else that had happened recently, she was genuinely excited about it.

The ball was known for its outlandish ways, and this year they outdid themselves, literally mixing things up. The red carpet followed the cocktail hour and dinner, an effort, the organizers explained via press release, to encourage attendees to mingle and, most of all, stick around to bid at the charity auction rather than cut out after they’d taken a few pictures. The celebrities on the other hand, suspected that this was actually a great way for the gala committee to assure the press pictures of some tipsy boldface names tripping, falling, or nip-slipping their way down the carpet and into their limos.

Lucy couldn’t have cared less. Whatever the motive, she figured it was much more interesting to spectators and newsworthy to the media to see celebrities on a drunken food baby alert, after they’d gorged themselves on hors d’oeuvres and alcohol. She noted the size of the peanut gallery of professional fans, held at bay by rent-a-cops and velvet ropes, as she arrived, all waiting patiently to roar their indiscriminate approval at the party’s conclusion, and knew it was going to be a successful night for her ego and her brand.

“You’re late,” a snippy, tuxedoed minder with a clipboard and walkie-talkie headset chastised.

She was. Her sense of time was definitely not the same since the storm and without Jesse to wrangle her, she was lucky to have gotten there at all. Lucy went for the default excuse.

“My car was late.”

From the exasperated look on his face, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that one tonight.

“Rich-people problems,” he sniffed, and pressed the talk button on his headset mic. “I’ve got her.”

Lucy felt like one of those animals that occasionally escaped from the zoo and wreaked havoc. Rounded up.

Captured.

“What, no tranquilizer gun?”

“Dinner is almost over,” he said dismissively, taking her forcefully by the forearm. “You’re first up for the auction.”

As she was led around like an amateur dancer on a ballroom TV show toward the curtained back of the stage, Lucy noticed a line of heads dangling upside down under the lights above the hors d’oeuvre stations inside the dining area. They were all molded in the likeness of the city’s most rich and famous. As the heat lamps above were switched on, the heads, made of actual cheese, started to melt slowly, drizzling onto the crackers of the patrons positioned expectantly below. The heated heads gave the appearance of a fire at Madame Tussauds.

Lucy noticed one of the heads was in her likeness.

She had been beheaded.

And set on fire.

Her features slowly disappearing under the lamps and dripping down in long strings into the hungry mouths.

She couldn’t have been more honored.

Lucy came to an abrupt stop and the minder released her at the foot of a small staircase. “When they say your name, step up and out onto the stage.”

“Then what do I need to do?”

“Just stand there,” he said, resuming a crackly conversation on his radio with a colleague at some unknown location in the museum. “You’re good at that.”

A pack of obviously supercompetitive, well-married thirtysomethings, all members of the donor class, sneaked peeks at her over the rims of their half-empty champagne flutes, whispering. The knives were clearly out. Lucy became increasingly uncomfortable as she waited to be introduced. She felt their eyes on her, glaring savagely, picking her apart, appraising her outfit and calculating her worth. Covetous of her youth, her look, her ambition, her success. Lucy tried to hold her chin up high, but her head still hurt. She could count the beats of her heart by the throbbing in her scalp.

“ . . . Brooklyn’s own Lucky Lucy Ambrossssse.”

She’d become so fixated on the pain, which instantly brought back thoughts of Sebastian, that she barely heard her name mentioned by the MC and the polite applause and catcalls that followed.

The minder came up behind her and gave her a shove. “Go!”

Lucy burst through the curtain and practically galloped to the lip of the stage, hands on hips, ready to void the warranty. It was a confrontational pose, seductive, but if she knew anything, she knew how to sell herself. And on this night, she had literally offered herself up to the highest bidder. The crowd ate it up.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, how much for a private dinner date at the River Café with this lovely young lady?”

Bids came in fast and furiously, one higher than the next, table by table, along with whoops and hollers, all decorum tossed to the wind. Well-to-do men, mainly, put down their utensils, wiped away the runny au jus from their chins, loosened their ties and shirt collars at the sight of her, and reached for their checkbooks. Husbands and boyfriends were watched closely by disapproving wives and green-eyed girlfriends. It was a primal scene as even the smell in the room changed subtly from a floral-laced scent thrown off by the table centerpieces to the raw musk of a hot, sweaty gym.

“The food pantries need filling, folks. We can’t do it without you!”

She wondered what it must look like from the outside. All these people making offers for her time, her attention. It was all so transactional. Did they even know what charity they were supporting? She barely did, but like the bidders, she wanted to win, she wanted to be the most valuable, the most prized of the night. And besides, it wasn’t up to her who paid the price.

“Make it rain, gentlemen!” she shouted brazenly. “Give until it hurts.”

Lucy was caught up and she worked it. The higher the bid, the farther she retreated from the front of the stage, teasing them, coaxing them along with the MC to go bigger. It was demeaning and oddly empowering all at the same time. To have such control, such influence. To command such attention.

“Let’s not have any short arms, deep-pockets people,” the MC barked. “It’s all for a good cause!”

With that challenge, a huge bid, double any other, came from the floor. The crowd was silenced as the MC called for a higher bid.

“Once.”

“Twice.”

“Done!”

“Miss Ambrose, please make your way to table six and meet the winning contributor.”

Lucy stepped down into the darkened dining room carefully, worried that the headache that was suddenly returning was affecting her vision. She stumbled past a few tables and arrived at her table, which was empty, except for a man seated at its head.

“Hello, Miss Ambrose.”

“Hello.”

“Wonderful event. And very magnanimous of you to put up with that. Even for charity.”

“Anything for a good cause,” she said and smiled. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Lucy squinted for a name tag he didn’t seem to be wearing.

“Dr. Frey,” he said, standing and extending his hand formally for hers. “Please sit down.”

Her hand went suddenly limp as she placed his name and withdrew her hand from his. She appeared ill to the doctor. Unsteady, she positioned her hand on the table to keep herself upright.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“So many were caught in the storm and got sick,” he said, looking at her closely. “Headache. Red, puffy eyes. Bad flu. We’re seeing a lot of that at the hospital.”

He was clearly probing her.

“I was inside.”

“Of course,” he said. “That explains why we haven’t seen much of you in the news lately.”

“I wouldn’t think a man with your responsibilities would even know who I am.”

“Quite the contrary. I know exactly who you are.”

She swallowed hard.

“Doesn’t everyone?” he concluded with a smile.

Lucy’s knees were starting to weaken, to buckle.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well after all. Perhaps I can have a rain check?”

“No worries,” Frey assured her, reaching into his pocket. “Here is my card. Feel free to call and set up that dinner when you are feeling better.”

“Thank you.” Lucy turned to walk away, looking to see if
he was following her, but he wasn’t. He let her go. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

“Oh, Miss Ambrose?”

Lucy froze. She had to acknowledge him. Others were watching. Listening.

“I’m surprised that you’re not wearing your bracelet,” Frey said. “For such a unique event, it would have been the perfect accessory.”

“Bracelet?” Lucy asked, knowing damn well what he meant.

“Oh, forgive me. I was referring to the white beaded one you had on in one of your photos online. Where did you get such a thing?”

“It was a gift.”

“Well, whoever gave it to you must know you well,” he said. “It suits you.”

Lucy turned and flashed Frey a tense half smile, keeping it together for just a few seconds longer. “On behalf of the sponsors of the Brooklyn Museum, thank you for your generous contribution, Doctor.”

“You are worth every penny, Lucy,” Frey responded.

Lucy felt her head about to explode. She dropped his card to the floor and stepped on it, wiping her hand as she bolted for an exit, any exit, but found her path blocked by a table, a waiter, an admirer, a hater, at every turn in the busy room. Half-seated tables with papier-mâché Warhol head centerpieces vomiting roses sat surreally among litter and leftovers, lipsticked glasses and dirty plates holding the
remains of roasted suckling pig and rabbit savagely devoured by savage beauties and their overfed dinner dates. It was like the storm fund-raiser had turned into a fun house. She was overwhelmed.

“Please,” she begged, pushing her way through the crowd. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

As Lucy made her move toward an open door, she was grabbed and pulled sideways, nearly out of her six-inch heels.

“The red carpet is this way.”

The minder assigned to her was not taking no for an answer. She was pushed out an exit and directly onto the walkway just as she’d been pushed up the stairs earlier.

Delivered.

Cameras flashed. Dozens of them.

“Lucy!”

The photographers screamed for her and so did the fans. All begging for acknowledgment like ardent lovers. It was loud and chaotic. Disorienting. Maddening. What was once such a pleasure seemed now a punishment. The flashbulbs kicked her migraine into overdrive and she began to claw at her brow in pain, dizzy and panicked.