Cleopatra and Frankenstein(107)

“Ta-da!” Audrey pivoted on her pointed high heels. “What do you think? Good enough for the party of the year?”

They were going to the opening night for the artist Danny Life’s new show, Deathly Revelations. Danny and Cleo had been in graduate school together back when he had adult braces and still went by Danny Rodriguez, which was how she’d managed to get them on the list for what was arguably the most hyped and exclusive party to come out of a circle of artists known for producing hyped and exclusive parties.

Located in an abandoned liquor warehouse on Randall’s Island, the event was being sponsored by real estate developers hoping to drum up support for two luxury towers they planned to erect in the warehouse’s place. It was the central thrust of an effort to rebrand the neighborhood as a viable home for creative urban professionals, most of whom had never heard of Randall’s Island. But Cleo wasn’t going for the hype, the guest list, or the pleasure of being able to tell those not invited she was there. Frank would be there. She was going to see Frank. She was going so Frank would see her.

Rightly guessing that an hour-long subway ride would deter the crowd they were hoping to court, the party organizers had arranged for a fleet of yellow school buses to shuttle the guests from Union Square to the warehouse. The buses were lined along Fifteenth Street next to a stand selling mango flowers on sticks, a kebab truck, and a woman offering palm readings. That was the thing about New York, Cleo thought as they walked toward the buses. It never knew what you wanted, so it offered you everything.

“You going to be okay if we run into Frank?” Audrey asked.

“It can be hard to see an ex,” said Marshall.

“He’s not my ex,” Cleo said. “Yet.”

After they’d returned from upstate, they’d agreed it would be a good idea to spend some time apart. Cleo had since gone back on her antidepressants and was finally beginning to feel like herself again. It would be good for Frank to see her at something social where she could appear carefree and normal, more like how he’d first met her, Cleo thought. And Frank was certain to be there. He’d bought one of Danny’s early paintings and would never miss a party of this magnitude. Cleo undid her braid and began replaiting it. She hoped she looked pretty. She should have worn more makeup.

“Wow, it’s so suburban,” shrieked Audrey as they clambered onto the school bus.

Cleo scanned the seats. No Frank. He was probably on another bus. She followed Audrey and Marshall down the aisle, passing a man with a salmon-crested cockatoo perched on his shoulder. He was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of what appeared to be the same cockatoo printed on it.

“Cool shirt,” said Audrey as they passed him.

He gave her a disapproving look and then turned, in unison with his cockatoo, to stare back out of the window.

Quentin was already seated in the back, looking twitchy and sneaking drags of a cigarette out the window. Next to him was Alex. Cleo had spent most of the past two months staying with Quentin until Alex, the Russian lover he had met through some shadowy means Cleo had known better than to interrogate, appeared. He claimed he was being evicted from his apartment near Brighton Beach, and Quentin had promptly invited him to stay, which Cleo took as her cue to move to Audrey’s.

Alex was beautiful but ravaged, like opening a shiny mink fur coat to find a stained, moth-eaten lining within. He watched Quentin constantly with cautious, haunted eyes, accepting without thanks whatever drugs, drinks, or food Quentin offered to him.

“He’s not a stray dog,” Cleo had chided Quentin. “You shouldn’t have to feed him to keep him around.”

But that only prompted Quentin to nickname Alex Pies, the Polish for dog. Since Alex rarely spoke around her, Cleo never knew how he felt about his new name.

“Isn’t this fun?” said Quentin when she reached him. “Like going on a school trip. Except with drugs.”

Quentin was wearing a corset top under a leather jacket with slim black jeans and high-heeled motorcycle boots. His clavicle bones protruded sharply from above the top’s plunging neckline, and his naturally high cheekbones had a hollow, gaunt quality. She couldn’t believe he had shrunk so much in just a few weeks. Cleo had never seen him wear any of his women’s clothing outside of his house and was careful not to let her face register too much surprise.

“You look wonderful,” said Cleo. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to walk?”

“I’ve been practicing,” said Quentin and gave her a wink. His eyelids shimmered with black glitter.

Alex, Cleo noticed with some alarm, was dressed entirely in Quentin’s old boy clothes. Cleo met his eye and realized that he had been watching her register his outfit with satisfaction.

“Woof,” she said and took a seat by the window behind them.

The bus had created the ideal combination of childhood nostalgia and adult revelry; an atmosphere of almost frenzied excitement pervaded it as guests passed bottles up and down the aisles and unsuccessfully attempted group sing-alongs to 1990s hits. Cleo found herself, unfortunately, sitting next to Guy, a French makeup artist and old friend of Frank’s who had gotten so drunk at their wedding dinner, he’d wandered into the building’s trash room and vomited down the chute.

“Hi Guy,” she said, unable to resist pronouncing his name the American way, which she knew to be a particular peeve of his.