The Getty Ball: Red Carpet

We pull up in a black stretch limo, camera bulbs flashing even before we come to a stop.

“Showtime,” Tiffany says, sporting a wide smile.

I adjust my bowtie one last time, feeling strangely self-conscious. My picture’s been in a tabloid or two, but this… half the western world will know my name after tonight.

The chauffeur swings the door open and I step out onto the red carpet, a cocky smile freshly plastered on my face. I hear a wave of soft murmurs, people trying to figure out who I am. White flashbulbs go off again, and I turn, offering a hand to Tiffany.

There’s a cheer that ripples through the audience as she steps out of the limo, revealing a luminous lilac green wrap-dress that balloons about her feet, hundreds of crystals glimmering under the bright lights. With a necklace of emeralds and a crystal tiara on her head, she looks like a real life Disney princess, plunging neckline excepted, the smile on her face pure sunlight and loveliness.

“What’s the dress, Tiffany?” a reporter calls out from the sidelines.

“It’s a DVF, love ya to bits you mad lady,” she says, blowing a kiss to the air.

“And whose the new man?” another shouts.

She hooks an arm around my elbow, pressing her cheek against mine, those heels adding just enough inches for the motion to look natural.

We smile for the shutter-bursts, and then she says: “This is the first public appearance of my friend, and the most brilliant artist, Claude Ashworth!”

I take a bow, and then take a step back on the carpet, waving a hand to everyone in attendance. Most of the people in the audience don’t know how to react to that—the name is utterly unfamiliar to them—but I see a couple heads turn, whispers exchanged, fingers pointing. It seems my reputation is not unknown.

“New boyfriend?” a female reporter calls out.

I chuckle at the question, as if it were a good joke.

“Just a good friend,” Tiffany replies, flashing her own rehearsed smile.

“Why’d you break up with Eric Simonds? It caught us all by surprise!” another voice shouts.

That question gets ignored.

We slowly stroll down the carpet, smiling, taking the softball questions as they come, and then a guy with slicked back hair and a cigar in his free hand sticks out a mic and shouts: “Hey Tiffany, what do you make of Eric Simonds showing up with Madison Merrygold? He’s moving on fast, eh? You couldn’t satisfy him?”

This asshole with his press lanyard, thinking those ten square inches of plastic make him God.

Tiffany’s grip around my arm tightens for a fraction of a second.

“They’re both good people,” Tiffany replies. “I just hope they’re making good choices.”

The mic in the guy’s hand droops a fraction, and he’s about to follow up with another question, but another journalist jumps in the gap.

“Claude Ashworth, why the decision to go public after years of anonymity?”

This from a woman with flowing brunette hair and a femme dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, her press tag hanging out of her black pants pocket. I falter a second, the face faintly familiar, before my memory saves me. This is Jenny ‘J’ Sterling, one of the New York Times’ sharpest media reporters. She’s written two columns about my exhibitions, both flattering.

“An artist must evolve with the times, or be drowned by the currents of history,” I say. “You’ll want to keep an eye on what I’ve got planned next.”

I see the corners of her lips tug upwards as she scribbles something down on her notepad, and then a moment later, there’s a fresh wave of hubbub at the front of the carpet as one of the Kardashians pull up.

“Missed this?” Tiffany whispers to me.

“The theme for the Met Gala in ’99 was Rock Style,” I laugh, recalling memories of my younger days. “It was, against all odds, a dull affair. But then again, I didn’t have you on my arm.”

“That would’ve been tricky, considering I hadn’t been born then,” she smiles.

We come across a tall pavilion set up outside the main building, tall cocktail tables and celebrities of all sorts chatting before the main doors open.

“Still an hour before we find out who’s at our table,” I say, checking my watch.

“We should grab some drinks,” Tiffany says, looking over at the bar to the side.

On the way, she waves and says hi to a dozen people that I get introduced to too, names that I’d heard before but never got the chance to meet in person. They flash me curious smiles, firm handshakes, and then share sidelong glances with their partners, wondering how I ended up with Tiffany Najbreit on a night like this.

Let them wonder.

We eventually make it to the bar, where I order myself a gin and tonic, keeping it light to start. I’ll need a clear head tonight.

“I wish I could be twenty-one already,” she complains to the bartender. “But I’ve got a reputation to keep up, so… it’s got to be orange juice again.”

“We’ve got you covered,” the bartender replies with a chuckle. He pulls out a couple of oranges from nowhere and sets to juicing them, passing us our drinks a moment later.

“Tiffany!” a high-pitched voice squeals.

A girl, maybe a year or two older than my date for the night, runs up to Tiffany and gives her a quick hug, her swooping black dress fluttering in the air. Hailey and Tiffany were on a show together, back when they were first making their names.

“We have to talk about Eric. What happened?! Tell me everything,” Hailey says, before noticing my presence. “Oh, hi! New boy toy?” She looks to Tiffany, who shakes her head.

“You going to be fine on your own, Claude?” Tiffany asks, turning to face me for a second.

“I think I’ll manage. Enjoy the girl talk,” I say, taking the hint.

“Catch you soon,” Tiffany smiles, waving me goodbye, and then I’m free.

I spend a while roaming through clumps of talking people, getting a sense of all in attendance. Like the Met Gala in New York, this is primarily a gathering for the socialites and the super-rich, with a healthy dose of celebrities mixed in. I spy a number of familiar faces that Claude Ashworth would have no business starting a conversation with, and then, a number of minutes and idle conversations later, I bump almost face-first into Amanda Najbreit.

The redhead is dressed in a dark gown, the silks sheer enough that her pale skin is left tantalising visible except in those few crucial areas, where a couple extra folds of the fabric preserve her modesty. She catches my eye, and it only takes a second for her to place me.

“So you’re Tiffany’s new friend. Pleasure to meet you, I’m Mandy,” she says, the smile on her face reminding me of a cheshire cat for some reason.

She holds out a hand, and I take it into mine, delicately kissing the back of her hand with a short bow.

“The pleasure’s mine,” I say, gently releasing her hand.

The mysterious smile on her face grows deeper.

“I hear you had a bright idea about my STX deal,” she says, taking a casual sip of wine from her glass.

My deal?

I wonder, for a brief moment, what my life would be like had I remained on track to take over the family office. Would I stand that same way in her shoes, use the same words that she chooses now?

“I hear that your Father approved of my plan,” I say. “Or is he just your boss? The relationship is… confusing to me.”

“There’s no reason he can’t be both. Tiffany should be able to tell you all about it,” Mandy says.

“Must be a lot of pressure, needing to please him in more than one way,” I say. The implication is clear; it’s a hunch that I suspect, if true, could throw her off her game.

“He’s not a man that’s easily satisfied. But I’m a woman who knows how to perform,” Mandy says, flashing me that all-teeth smile again. “Have you had a chance to see our office’s latest annual report?”

“Tiffany hasn’t shared that with me,” I say, honestly. “How’s the office doing?”

“Up seventeen—” she starts saying, when another feminine voice behind her says: “Claude, it’s been too many years.”

The lady that steps around Mandy has caramel coloured skin, the white dress that hugs her figure elegant and trim, just a hint of lace about the edges providing all the flash necessary.

A chill runs down my back. She recognises me. Knows our history. But… how? There was a real Claude Ashworth? Or did Mr. Samuel somehow rope a Rothschild into helping build my backstory? I don’t know enough.

“Hanna Maria, what’s it been? Six years? Six too many, I say!”

I embrace her, exchanging kisses on both her cheeks, and then the adopted Rothschild turns and faces the adopted Najbreit.

“And Mandy, it’s been too many minutes!”

The sarcasm in her voice drips with scarcely concealed venom.

“Two-hundred and sixty-five too many, Hanna Maria,” Mandy agrees, the statement made without consultation of any clock.

They stare at each other for a moment, something dark passing between them.

I know, of course, that they were sitting at a negotiation table just hours ago, engaged in a bidding war for STX Entertainment. I know, too, that Mandy doesn’t like my plan. I need to stop her from sabotaging it.

“I was just talking to Claude about STX,” Mandy says innocently.

“Oh, so you’re in the loop?” Hanna Maria asks me, looking me over curiously. A gleam passes through Mandy’s eye. “Well, I shouldn’t ask you to take sides. I know how it feels to be stuck in the middle. But be that is at may, don’t you think that Lionsgate would be a better steward of the company? I think we’ve brought couple more hits to market than MGM has, these last few years.”

“With atrocious margins and almost no profit. The Merrygold exclusive alone was lunacy, and then then you had to go on and…”

“Ladies, must we be at each other’s throats tonight?” I quickly interrupt, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “There will be plenty of time for that some other day. I see the door’s to the building are finally opening. Shall we head in and see where we’re seated?”

The two women spare one last set of glares for each other, before we join the growing line of attendees to be seated for dinner.