Anabella's hands are dry and coarse, as if they hadn't been properly moisturized in a long time. Her nails are neglected, and her fingers, long, and thin, exhibit bite marks. Up-close, really close, the imperfections on her face are clear: her cheeks are sunken, her eye bags are prominent and her lips are dry. She's still so very attractive, and she reminds me of a nineties model, when the heroin chic was trendy, but her eyes are dim, no light nor spark to let me know there's life on them, as if Anabella Sullyvan was only heroin and alcohol, with nothing in between.
We walk, silently, and cross the sitting room, we turn right and now we're on the ample dining room. The looks of certain guests follow us; follow her, actually, and find me instead, probably wondering who I am and what I'm doing with her, but it's something.
It's something.
I like the attention, I always have. In this life, the worst thing you can be is forgettable. Winners are those who always leave an impression, wherever they go. One of the great achievements of my life so far, sad as it may sound, is having been chosen "Most Likely to be Remembered" in high school. Ever since I opened my Facebook page, I made sure to only friend those who were relevant in high school and college. I like to be remembered. I need to be remembered. If they don't remember you, it's like you don't even exist, as if your life didn't matter.
"Can you tell me who we're looking for?" I ask when we finally stop in the middle of the dining room. "Maybe I could you find him."
"I'm sure you can," she answers, without turning around. "But then you'd ruin the surprise. Besides, we don't need to find her."
"And why is that?"
"Because she's already here."
Anabella points at someone behind me, and I immediately turn around to end that ridiculous little game, once and for all.
The woman in front of me is quite beautiful. Her eyes are green, very bright and very deep, and I correctly guess I'll feel very uncomfortable looking at them. Her skin is tanned, naturally, not artificially, and her hair is long, very black and shiny, and is styled, tonight, in a high bun that makes her look matronly. She's wearing a gray dress, embroidered with several multicolored crystals, that tingle loud and annoyingly every time the light touches them.
I know perfectly well who this woman is, everybody in here knows it. She's more famous than anyone else present, and she's nothing like her picture; she's even more stunning in person. I know she's from California, but she doesn't look like a California Girl, whatever that means. No, this woman has that classic Upper East Side elegance. She could be wearing those tacky and cheap-looking Juicy sweatpants, and she'd still be classy.
This is a woman worth knowing. She owns this apartment, after all.
"Lucia, I want you to meet Alec..." Anabella stops mid-sentence and it takes me a little while to understand why.
"Láster, Alec Láster," I quickly finish, flashing my brightest smile.
"Alec is a reporter and he wants to ask you some questions," Anabella continues, as she reaches out to grab a new glass of champagne.
"Reporter, you said?" says Lucia, glancing judgmentally at Anabella, who's already emptying the glass, apparently forgetting about us.
""New York Eye"," I say, nodding firmly. "We appreciate the invitation."
"Well of course, our friends on the press are always welcome," she says in her most polite tone.
"Nights such as these must be cause for pride, I imagine. You and you husband have been extremely generous with this Foundation."
"The Foundation does noble work, it's our obligation to support it anyway we can."
Lucia Ludlow speaks with the serenity of a woman who's in complete control of the situation. Her voice is low and soft, and she looks like she's never shouted in her entire life, because she's never had to. Her demeanor is cold and distant, as if her being there, speaking to me, was a profound waste of time, a never-ending litany that goes on and on and on, and the only thing that changes is the man asking the questions, but never the questions themselves. Despite all of that, her words would never give you that impression. Her mask is near-perfect, thick and fool-proof, fine porcelain resistant to stupidity and idle chit-chat.
In spite of being right in front of her, she seems so far away, unreachable even, and though she's looking at my eyes and speaking directly to me, I can't shake the feeling that my face is nothing but a shadow to her, a shadow she'll forget once she's turned around and the next guy with a pen and paper comes along.
"Would it be terribly inappropriate if I asked you some questions?" I ask, raising my notebook with fake shyness.
"I'd expect nothing less from the press. Ask away," she replies, her smile more obvious and therefore, more dishonest.
"Well, I believe my work here is done," interrupts Anabella, and I turn around to see her. I admit I'd forgotten about her. "Good luck, Alec. You'll need it."
And with those words she says goodbye, turning around and walking away, stumbling all the way to the bar.
"An interesting girl," I say, turning my gaze to Lucia, again.
"Energetic, I would say," she says, hardly hiding the contempt in her words.
"Who isn't at her age?" I ask, wondering if I'll be able to get something out of this woman. Maybe if I push the right buttons.
"Yes, well there's a time and a place for everything. Today's youth considers these events outdated and unnecessary, but old habits die hard and who doesn't enjoy a good, old-fashioned fundraiser? There will always be noble causes to support, and if there aren't any, then we'll find them."
"It's funny you say that. just a couple of minutes ago, I had a similar conversation with Anabella Sullyvan. You see, she asked me if I thought newspapers were on the verge of extinction. "The last remnant of a time that refuses to die", those were her exact words."
"I'm not surprised at all she thinks that way," she laughs, scathingly. "What did you say?"
"I said this world will always be in need of a little traditionalism."
"Well said. Cheers to that."
Our glasses find each other and I wonder what my next words will be. The conversation will be over in just a couple of minutes, when somebody more interesting comes along and demands Lucia's attention, so I have to be very careful. I need to make her remember me.
"Just a week ago, an online fundraiser was celebrated, to restore the ceiling of the Opera de Milan, in Italy. The necessary amount was raised in under an hour," I say, once our drinks have been drunk. "Tell me, do you think events like this will be superseded by less costly alternatives, like online options?"
"No," she answers simply, before taking another drink. "Nights like this are a necessity for our community. It's not just about the money, it's about friendships and families. Look around: we're all friends, not just guests. If there wasn't some sort of official or important reason, then I'm afraid we'd still have parties, we just wouldn't have a anything to disguise our own frivolities with. If anything, the parties would be bigger and grander. Nights such as this humanize us and puts our guilty consciences at ease."
"A very honest answer," I say, as I write on my notebook. "Can I quote you on that?"
"Of course, it's not like people don't know this about us. There's no shame in accepting who you are, on the contrary. It would be ridiculous for us to deny our own privilege, when everyone else can see it."
This is my chance. This is the moment.
"Could I be so bold as to abuse of your honesty and ask you a more personal question?" I ask, abandoning any trace of shyness in my voice.
Shy won't work with Lucia Ludlow.
"It depends. You may ask a question, which I may or may not answer," she replies and the first honest smile draws upon her face. I consider that a true achievement.
"Do you really enjoy an event this large? Isn't it a bit invasive to welcome so many people into your home? I've always thought hosts are the ones that least enjoy their parties, and if I lived in an apartment like this, I'm not sure I'd like the intrusion."
"That's because you've never lived in an apartment like this," she answers, and her words cut deep, but I realize they weren't spoken to hurt me. "Why do you think we buy them? This apartment in particular, in the top of this very building. A lot of people think it's because we want to be unreachable, but that's not it. We're unreachable only to those who look at us that way. No, on the contrary, we buy these apartments because we like to be seen and admired, and we like to see and admire in return. You see, something is invasive only when it's unsolicited. When I invite people over to my home, I'm in control of the narrative, and they see what I want them to see. You learn these things with age. It's always better to have the reins firm in one's hand."
"What narrative are you presenting tonight?" I question again, well aware that the conversation has taken an unexpected turn, but she doesn't seem to care, on the contrary, I dare say she's enjoying the variety.
"Strength. Stability. Reliance. My husband is an investor, as I'm sure you know, and his image and reputation are his credentials. Money is the most valuable thing we have, there's no use denying it, and no one likes to put theirs on the wrong hands. This apartment and its contents, the accounts on the bank, the art on the walls and even I, are signs of trustworthiness to his clients. It's all connected. It's important that you learn to identify the reasons behind the actions, if you want to be a part of this world."
"What makes you think I want to be a part of this world?"
"Youth grants a lot of gifts. Opacity is not one of them, and your actions are transparent to even the most untrained of eyes. Tom Ford, isn't it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your suit, it's Tom Ford."
"It is."
"Excellent choice. Classic, elegant. Tailor-made, I see, and well worn, too. You wear it as if it was nothing, yet you make an effort to show it off, and that gives you away. Look around you. In this world, nobody shows off what they've had since birth. Wearing Tom Ford in this room doesn't make you stand out, on the contrary, it makes you fit right in. It's them who stand out."
She points at a group of young men and women, none older than thirty, walking in between the groups of people, notebooks in hand, furiously writing whatever they get to hear, noticing every little detail, describing every look and every smile.
"What do you think of them?" Lucia asks me, and I wonder if she's somehow testing me.
"I think they're doing their job."
"What job is that? Describing this party? The guests? The food? No, that's not it, there's always something more. If you want to navigate this world, you need to see what's hiding behind the velvet curtain."
My eyes try to find something and they finally settle on the pretty reporter I smiled at in the elevator, and the man beside her. He is tall, white-haired, thick and handsome, and he seems completely absorbed in the conversation; his eyes are fixated on hers, and hers on his, while she rapidly writes on her notebook.
"Charles Anton," I mutter, as I take two steps forward. There's no need to guess. That was my story, after all. "The Brooklyn construction."
"Good, good, but that's hardly anything. Everyone here knows about his constant visits to Brooklyn, it's the reasons that remain unknown."
"What more is there? Anton is an architect who owns a construction company and has spent time looking at construction sites in Brooklyn. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together."
"Charles Anton is an architect who owns a construction company. What reason could he possibly have to hide his intentions?"
"Maybe the money behind his construction is compromised."
Lucia raises her eyebrows and turns around, her hawk-like gaze upon me, her eyes slightly gleaming, as if they were palpitating with anticipation, and I finally understand this is a test.
"Is that what you think? That Charles Anton is involved in shady businesses?"
I immediately stop when I hear those words. It's one thing to chase a lead based on a rumor that, despite being well-known and perfectly plausible, is a rumor nonetheless, and another to trash-talk a man like Charles Anton in front of a woman like Lucia Ludlow.
The Upper East Side has a life of its own. It has eyes and ears everywhere.
Suddenly, I realize I've lost all sense of control.
Suddenly, I'm terrified.
"I have no proofs, only rumors."
"Is that all? Only rumors?"
"In my line of work, rumors are often the basis the of the story. Seldom are the scoops that begin with cold-hard facts, it's always a rumor."
Lucia Ludlow smiles at me, more honestly than before, and I feel as though the test was not completed satisfactorily, but it wasn't failed either.
"There is a secret behind that façade, but it's not what you're thinking. Do you remember what I told you before? We are unreachable only to those who look at us that way. Foreigners take a look at us and see only the worst, and to them, the worst is always something to do with fraud or money-laundering or shady businesses. But if they only took a closer look, if they dared come close, they'd see that, the majority of the time, our secrets are more common than they think and just as embarrassing as aunt Edith, drunk in the Christmas party."
And suddenly, Lucia takes two steps to the front and now she's right in front of me, so close that our glasses crash against each other, and I immediately feel the heat on my face and I know that'll make me look bad. She's taller than me, so I have to slightly look up to find those incandescent emerald eyes that I'm beginning to find intoxicating.
"My husband is about to give his speech and the proper thing for me to do is to stand by his side. Find me when the night is over, or before if you're more capable than you look, and bring me the story that hides behind Charles Anton. A word of advice? Before approaching him, go out into the terrace, take a deep breath and clear your head. You'll never find anything if you don't know what you're looking for, so stop drinking, focus and think of a reason why a man like Charles Anton would cross the East River every week to secretly buy construction spaces. It's time to see if that Tom Ford is a real suit, or just another costume worn by just another pretender. "