One Way or Another(82)
“Put it on,” she said. “First the mesh cap, then the wig.”
She handed them both to me and I did as she said. It was like being reunited with myself. The hair swept my bare shoulders, I patted it around my face, pulled tendrils forward. I had no mirror but it did not matter.
She said, “Now put on the dress.”
I slithered into the black velvet. She came and stood behind me, tightened the corset laces, fluffed out the skirt. It felt silky, delicious, I knew I must be dreaming, and then she said, “Now, lift your hair up out of the way.”
I did as she asked, lifting my neck as she clasped a golden necklace around it. Lacking a mirror I put up a hand to touch it, knew instantly it was another gold Cartier neck chain with the panther clasp. To replace the one I’d lost in the Aegean. And, again, my initials. AM.
Cinderella really was ready for the ball!
Mehitabel took my hand in her cold one and led me back to the chair.
“You will sit here, not move a muscle until I come and get you.” She frowned, looking at me, tut-tutting. She had obviously forgotten something. She went to the other bag, brought out a box of makeup, then bent over me, applying a layer of powder, blush, gray eye shadow; no mascara though and no false eyelashes. A dab of lipstick that tasted of cherries.
“Well, well,” she said, taking a step back and inspecting her handiwork. “Looks almost like the old Angie. Not that anyone will see, of course. At least, not at first.”
She handed me a beautiful feather mask on a silver stick. “This is to be a masked ball. No one will know who anybody really is until the moment of unmasking is announced by Ahmet. And then we’ll see what he’ll have to say, won’t we, Angie. I’ve brought you back from the dead, girl. I hope you appreciate that.”
I did, but I wasn’t sure Ahmet would.
59
Martha had done as much as she could to make Marshmallows the party house of the year, but no mellow lighting, no arching rainbows in the sky, no white fairy lights seemed able to soften its harsh fa?ade. Worried, she stood out on the front lawn—the only bit of grass that was real lawn, she thought, remembering she must post warnings: “Do not step on the grass” beyond the back terrace. “Wetlands” she would call it. That would be enough to stop any woman putting her expensive new party shoes anywhere near it. They would stick to the terrace where the massive stone planters had been filled with sweet-scented stocks and fluffy cow parsley as well as the everlasting white roses Ahmet insisted on, as his “signature” flower. Why a man needed a signature flower beat Martha, but the customer was always right.
And in pride of place at the foot of the staircase where it could not be missed by all entering the house, on an easel, stood Marco’s completed portrait of Ahmet. A tough, very immediate image that looked almost slammed onto the canvas, it showed a hard man, a powerful man in his prime. It was there in the confrontational glare in his eyes—he had taken off the glasses at Marco’s request, held them close to his chest as though about to put them back on. And although he was seated in the old captain’s chair, he still looked like a “man on the move,” ready for action.
Ahmet did not like his picture and told Marco so.
“I’d wanted more the classical banker setup, like everyone else in my business,” he said.
Marco dismissed his complaints with a shrug. “You are not a classical banker. You don’t like it, don’t pay me. I’ll keep it myself, show it here in my studio, perhaps send it on to a gallery I know.”
Of course Ahmet could not accept that. He paid and, finally convinced it was a rare honor to be painted by Marco Mahoney, agreed to show it in his house.
Martha herself had found the time to change into the long, slippery, silver-sequined halter-neck dress she’d had for ages and felt comfortable in—and besides, she wasn’t the “star” tonight so what she wore didn’t matter so much. She was the greeter and helper-out.
She wondered where Lucy was, she was supposed to be here with the pizza boyfriend, but as yet there was no sign of her.
Garlands of laurel and bay were slung along the balustrades and over the doors and windows, also lending their more exotic scent. The windows had been left open and the creamy muslin curtains billowed in the breeze. Votives lined each side of every stairway leading into the garden, and fat amber and gold candles centered the tables, tied with a swath of ribbon. Martha had used the same glassware from Biot as on the yacht, and white plates printed with the repeated logo MARSHMALLOWS and the party date running around the edge; a souvenir of a grand evening for the guests.
A series of tents, rather than just the one massive one Ahmet had wanted, dotted the front lawn, linked by transparent plastic passageways—in case of rain, Martha had warned Ahmet, because of course he also expected her to have control over the weather for his big night.
A dozen chefs manned the usually empty kitchen, with more outside working the barbecue. Dozens of waiters in white jackets, champagne jammed into huge ice buckets on tall stands, a display of terribly expensive red wine, a Bordeaux from a good year, as well as a lighter Beaujolais, and Sancerre and Chablis for those who preferred white. Perrier water, Badoit, Red Bull, Pepsi, every diet drink imaginable. Nothing was left to chance tonight; whatever any guest wanted Ahmet meant to supply it. Those were his orders to Martha. Who, in fact, was getting a bit fed up of “orders.”