15
The cocktail hour waitstaff wore low-cut black tuxedo jackets and black-sequined masks. Banquet tables were arranged sporadically, each one overflowing with expensive food or beverages. The space was packed, bodies writhing to the sultry music beating through the speakers. Victoria squeezed through a group of men sporting pearl-snouted wolf masks devouring petite cuts of filet. One of the wolves growled and pinched her thigh as she passed.
“Succulent,” he said and let out a howl.
Victoria was too stunned to respond, and the man was quickly swept up into the arms of another wolf. They shared a bite, faces mashed together, before the steak was gone and their lips continued working.
She probably knew all these people, but the Gala was different. Board members and city-planning committees. The Kent Wood elite. Tonight, though, everyone wore a mask. Who they were in the real world ceased to exist.
Fitting, she thought. She, too, was going to suspend her everyday composure in favor for a darker side.
Wriggling up to an open spot near the end of the bar, Victoria breathed a sigh of relief. The surface was smooth and warm, a safe mahogany embrace after the sensory overload of the feasting floor.
“Can I help you?”
One of the bartenders, tall and modelesque in a blood-red Grecian tunic, cocked her head to the side. The red feathers of her mask fluttered with the movement.
A cardinal.
“Shot of vodka, please,” Victoria said.
The cardinal flipped a shot glass and poured. She smiled at a tall man in a sapphire hockey mask at the opposite end of the bar before handing it over. “Bottoms up.”
The liquor went down in a flash of warmth. “One more,” Victoria said.
The cardinal poured again. “You know, not too long ago, we wouldn’t have even been allowed in this place.”
“Is that right?”
“In its prime, the Kent Wood Mansion had only three rules: cash only, no locals, and no women allowed.”
This felt like a script Margaret Connors had forced her employees to memorize. This woman was probably one of many actors Victoria would encounter tonight, charged with historical facts or ghost stories or whatever else Margaret thought would make the venue more interesting.
“Shitty rules,” Victoria said, sipping her shot. “All I see are inebriated locals with credit cards.”
“Solid observation,” the cardinal tittered, starting to move away. “There’s a bunch of us back here, but I’m Temperance, and I’ve got the best pour, so if you need anything else, flag me down.”
A bartender named Temperance. Ha.
“I’m good,” Victoria said, swiveling to people watch. The air was thick with alcohol and heat. No sign of Warren yet, though, and the room continued to fill up. Chances of finding him in here were slim. Finishing her shot, she left a twenty for Temperance—she was guilty of many things but being cheap wasn’t one of them—and followed the flow of be-masked guests through a set of double doors.
This room was smaller and smelled of lavender and eucalyptus. A woman wearing the stark white mask of a poltergeist and a matching fitted romper greeted everyone with earthy bags of essential oils wrapped in twine and Reiki crystals.
Victoria didn’t find that relaxing. It was like stepping into Silent Hill. She half expected a giant axe-wielding man with a pyramid head to emerge from the shadows.
“Welcome to the Lounge,” the ghostly woman crooned, holding a bundle out to Victoria. “Please enjoy these favors, compliments of the Connors with the hopes you find peace and light.”
What a bunch of—“Thank you,” she said with her customer-service smile.
“My pleasure,” the ghost said. “Enjoy the private viewings. Please let me know if you have any questions.”
“Private viewings?” she asked.
The ghost’s cultured voice dropped to a conversational tone, smiling as she doled out another bag. “Peep shows, honey. Through the curtain.”
“Oh.” Victoria flushed under the lynx disguise, eyeing the heavy red curtain draped over the door across the room. “Thanks.”
She had no desire to see what kind of Baz Luhrmann-fever-dream-induced beautiful people Margaret had hired to entertain the masses.
A strict Catholic upbringing was partly to blame. Prayers before bed. Church most Sundays. Bible study one night a week until she graduated high school. These things contributed to Victoria’s belief that her body was something to hide. To be ashamed of.
Her mother hadn’t helped. Clare was repulsed by Victoria’s body and took every opportunity to make it known. She ran her hands over the gown’s corset, remembering the scratchy polyester of her prom dress as Clare pinched the bit of skin under her arm.
Your back fat is showing, she’d uttered in disgust. I told you this would happen. Where is your discipline? How many helpings of sweet potato did you have at dinner last night? You should have picked a dress for your body type, Victoria, honestly. Teagan has no trouble fitting into this silhouette, but you should know better. Something with more structure to suck this in. Another pinch, harder and unforgiving.
She had pitted the sisters against each other, using the insecurities of one to break down the other. For Teagan, Clare only bought padded bras, pointing out Victoria’s growing cleavage with a deceptively neutral face. She ridiculed Teagan’s nose and lips, either too wide or too thin, and praised Victoria for her full pout and sharp features.
Victoria repeatedly refused lipo, but at sixteen, Clare took Teagan for her first round of lip fillers and a nose job.
There was no going back.
Clare’s primary criticism of Victoria was her weight. Curvier meant fatter, and fat was just about the worst thing you could be in Clare Livingston’s book. She suffered twice-daily weigh-ins. Mandatory food journals. Clare measured her waist and thighs once a week with a fucking yellow tape measure she kept in her pocket like a dressmaker. An endless barrage of fad diets had ensued. Dairy-free. Meat-free. Raw foods. Carb counting. Calorie counting. Then, water pills. Personal trainers. Once, an ab belt. Every day for a month, Victoria slathered this foam monstrosity with a lubricant and fastened it to her waist. It had aluminum panels that were supposed to shock her muscles into shape, but if she didn’t use enough of the lubricant, it just burned her skin, leaving a wide red welt in its wake.
When one “solution” failed, Clare moved on to the next attempt to shrink her daughter to the appropriate size. Because for Clare, body-fat percentage was inextricably linked to a person’s character, but more importantly, to marriage. Fat didn’t get husbands, and the end goal for every woman was a diamond ring.
Victoria didn’t want diamonds, but she had learned the value of control, and she wanted that: agency over her company, her body, her life.
And all things considered, a husband was a small price to pay.