Liar (13 page)

It was amazing how you could put three hundred people in the same place and not tell any of them apart. Seriously. It wasn't just the monkey suits and
gowns, either. Every male had slicked-back hair and perfect teeth, and every female was heavily made up and bone thin. Just looking at them reminded him of Phoebe, in fact—as if being here wasn't depressing enough. How many of
them
had eating disorders?

At least his parents had deserted him. Thank God. Ed usually liked to spend the hours from five to eight on a Sunday evening as far away from them as possible. It didn't matter
what
he was doing. He could be lying in a gutter. Fortunately, they had their hands full—what with maintaining their fake smiles and not bickering. Plus they were dealing with caterers, photographers, the band (a cheesy Frank Sinatra rip-off type thing), mindless chitchat…. It was going to be a hell of a night.

Then there was the place itself. A monument to human grossness. From his strategic spot, he had a perfect view of the decor. What would somebody call this style, exactly? Neobaroque-cheesy? Prepostmodern-garish? Everything was gold and maroon—gilded with little flowers and cherubs. All the furniture was covered in velvet. Ed had assumed that velvet had gone out of style during the seventies, but apparently it all just ended up here. Plus you couldn't move ten feet in any direction without catching a glimpse of yourself in a mirror. That made sense, though. Rich people were vain, and vain people liked to look at themselves. Blane sure as hell did. In the five minutes Ed had been
here, Blane had already adjusted his goop-filled hair four times.

But Ed could deal with his future brother-in-law, the Plaza—even his ill-fitting tux. He'd
expected
all that. That wasn't the true root of his misery. No, the true root of his misery had nothing to do with the event itself.

It had to do with Gaia.

He swallowed, feeling queasy. Obviously she was mad at him for some reason. That e-mail had been … well,
curt,
to say the least. She hadn't even signed it G$. She'd used her real name. On purpose. To be stiff. Formal. Distant.

And Ed had absolutely no clue what he'd done.

Of course, he knew from long experience that there was no point in trying to figure out Gaia's bizarre mood swings. But at the very least he usually had some
clue
as to why she might be annoyed with him. Not this time, though. This was a total mystery.

The only possible reason he could think of was that Gaia had somehow found out that he was taking Heather to this party. His mom had mentioned that she'd stopped by the apartment … but he was pretty sure that was before he'd even
invited
Heather. Or rather, Heather had invited herself. And who would have told Gaia, anyway? Maybe his mom had said something about his hanging out with Heather….

Whatever. Best to buck up. Maybe eat another of those shrimp things. Why ruin a perfectly terrible time?

AS THE TAXI PULLED INTO THE circular driveway at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, Heather couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement. There was just something so undeniably
glamorous
about the moment. The Plaza looked like a giant, fairy-tale castle, with its little turrets and chimneys and flags.

A doorman in a top hat and shoulder epaulets rushed out and opened the door, offering a hand to help Heather slide out of the cab.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

This must be what movie stars feel like,
she thought, carefully lifting the hem of her black dress as she walked up the red-carpeted stairs. She had smiled to herself. She'd seen a bunch of actresses lifting their hems in the exact same way at last year's Oscars. She'd always secretly wanted to do it, too.

And now she was. It was funny: A dream of hers
had actually come true. How often did
that
happen in real life?

Thank you, Ed.

If the outside of the Plaza was impressive, though, the inside was awe inspiring. Heather tried not to gape as she drifted through the revolving door. Everybody was dressed in designer clothing.
Everybody.
The walls were lined with hand-painted murals and jewelry-box-size boutiques selling cigars and watches and expensive imported lingerie. She found herself eyeing the crowd for any celebrities. If there was anyplace in New York to spot a rock star or actor, this was it.

A sign near the grand staircase caught her attention.

F
ARGO
-H
ARRISON
E
NGAGEMENT
5
P.M.
to 8
P.M.
M
AIN
B
ALLROOM

That's me,
she thought dizzily. She headed quickly toward the ballroom's double doors, then paused under a vast, crystal chandelier. Maybe she should go to the ladies' room and freshen up a little bit. Yes. She was going to make an entrance. A
dramatic
entrance. She would dazzle Ed, knock his socks off. And not just at the start. She was going to make sure this evening was as magical for Ed as it was for her.

YOU'VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME,
ED thought with a snicker.

He'd parked his wheelchair at the edge of the dance floor for purposes of amusement, and he could see that it had been an excellent decision. His parents were out there, swinging up a storm. Or trying to. He didn't think he'd ever seen them dance before. Now he understood why. They looked like buffoons. His dad kept trying to lead his mother one way, but she kept trying to go another. They had absolutely no rhythm, either. But still, he had to hand it to them: Their smiles were still in place. A little strained, a little wary … but hanging on.

His sister and Blane, though—they were the real tragedy. Mom had mentioned that they were taking ballroom-dancing lessons, and it was very clear that they should have spent that money elsewhere. For one thing, Victoria was already clearly bombed. She must have started drinking at nine this morning. Otherwise she would
not
be trying to improvise with those disco moves. Blane was oblivious, though. He kept counting to himself out loud:
“One
-two,
three
-four …” Every time Victoria tried to wriggle free from his grip, he would glare at her.

These two were something, weren't they? A match made in heaven.

Incredibly enough, watching all the bullshit unfold was pretty enjoyable. Ed had thought he would miss not being able to dance, but for once in his life, he was thankful he had an excuse to sit out. The Sinatra wanna-be crooner was singing some song about how this chick wore her hat and sipped her drink and how they (who?) could never take the memory of that away from him … or something.

There was a delicate tap on his shoulder.

He glanced up—and nearly fell out of his wheelchair.

Heather had arrived. No, that was a massive understatement. Heather had
transformed.
She was hardly recognizable. Her long, shiny dark hair was parted in the middle, cascading over her bare shoulders. She was wearing a sleeveless black gown that hugged every curve of her body…. It was almost as if she wasn't wearing
anything,
as if she'd simply been dipped in a vat of black ink from the chest down. It was actually a lot like the dress his sister was wearing, only on Heather it actually looked
good.
Best of all, she was the only female in the room whose makeup didn't look clownish and overdone.

“Well, aren't you going to say hello?” Heather asked, cocking her eyebrow.

“Oh—sorry, hey,” he mumbled, trying not to stare at her. If he'd been hot before, he was practically sweating now. He glanced around the dance floor and
gestured awkwardly. “So, welcome to the lamest party ever. You can thank me later.”

She grinned down at him. “Oh, I don't know. It doesn't seem so bad.”

“Uh … you didn't take drugs before you came here, did you?” he asked sarcastically.

“Very funny.” She laughed and gave him a playful swat on the shoulder. “I just think it's kind of neat when people dress up really nicely. It's a change, you know?”

He shrugged. Actually, she might just have a point. He stole another quick peek at her hips as she swayed in time to the music. Heather's look was certainly a change. He wouldn't have imagined it possible that she could make herself even
more
beautiful than normal. But that was Heather. A constant kaleidoscope of surprise. It was weird. Sitting here in this bizarre ballroom, he almost felt like he was looking at her with fresh eyes. As if they'd never even met before. He could almost pretend there was no baggage, no history, just a clean slate—

Stop it.

Ed's face suddenly darkened. He wouldn't allow himself to fantasize, to live in a dream world. The setting might be highly surreal, but the reality remained unchanged. Heather was his ex-girlfriend. Far more important, Heather supposedly had a boyfriend. Besides, she'd hurt him too much in the
past. Nothing could heal that. And unfortunately, his heart belonged to someone else. Pathetically enough, that someone else was probably even less attainable than Heather.

“Cheer up, Ed,” Heather teased. “You might just have to go through something like this yourself someday.”

“Yeah, right,” he grumbled.

She flashed him another smile. “You look great, by the way,” she remarked.

He swallowed. He was definitely sweating now. No doubt about it. He could feel the dampness on his stupid dress shirt. By the end of the night he'd probably look like he'd gotten into a shower, fully clothed.

“Thanks,” he finally muttered. “So do you.” He turned away, then glanced back up at her again. She hadn't looked away. She was still smiling at him. Still staring at him. And this time he couldn't break from
her
gaze, either—

“Oh my
God!”
a high-pitched voice shrieked, shattering the moment. “Heather Gannis? Is that
you?”

Victoria.
Ed hung his head. He could hear Victoria's heels clattering on the dance floor as she ran over to them. Wonderful. He'd known this was going to happen. He was kind of amazed it had taken her
this
long to embarrass him. His eyes flashed back to Heather. She was still looking at him but in a
knowing, conspiratorial kind of way. He had to smile. Heather could relate. She, too, knew about Victoria's behavior.

“Wow!” Victoria exclaimed.

She teetered in front of Ed, staring Heather up and down, then reached out and snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter. A couple of drops spilled on Ed's pants. She didn't notice, of course.

“Congratulations, Victoria,” Heather said with a polite smile.

“Wow!” Victoria said again.

Ed frowned at her. Did Victoria leave her brain at home or something? Her vocabulary seemed to shrink in inverse proportion to the amount of booze she'd had.

Heather awkwardly cleared her throat. “So, um, this is really an amazing—”

“You're like, this … this
woman!”
Victoria interrupted. Her words were slurred. “I mean, look at you! The Heather I remember was a little girl.”

Please go away,
Ed thought, cringing. He knew his face was beet red. Not only was Victoria making an ass of herself, embarrassing Ed, and humiliating Heather—she was also talking loud enough to be heard in New Jersey.

“Thanks, Victoria,” Heather mumbled.

“You still got it, Ed,” Victoria announced. She clapped him on the shoulder, a little
too
hard. “You
still got the touch. And once you're on your feet again … whew. Watch out, ladies! Stud on the loose!”

Victoria continued to jabber drunkenly, but Ed no longer heard a word she said. Blood pounded in his ears. He clutched at his armrests so violently, he was worried he would tear them right off. Why couldn't she just shut up and leave them alone? How could she stand to be so awful? So completely blind to reality? Maybe that's why she drank like a rock star. To hide from herself.

“… you guys make the cutest couple, too—”

All at once his wheelchair jerked backward.

Whoa.
He glanced up. Heather had taken the handles and was steering him toward the exit. A phony smile was plastered on her face. Her eyes were smoldering.

“Hey!” Victoria cried. “Where're ya goin'?”

“Oh, I'm sorry!” Heather called over her shoulder. “I just remembered, there was something in the lobby I wanted to show Ed. We'll come find you later, okay?” She leaned down by his ear.
“Not”
she whispered.

Ed leaned back in his chair as they sped through the crowd. That was another great thing about Heather. She was a very fast thinker. Normally Ed hated it when somebody pushed him. Right now, however, he felt he was in good hands.

MAYBE ED WAS RIGHT ABOUT THIS being the lamest party ever. Victoria was certainly the lamest fiancée ever.

Heather peered down at Ed. At least he seemed to have recovered.

She had to say we made a cute couple,
Heather thought, deftly maneuvering him down a narrow and relatively empty corridor, away from the lobby. She had to ruin what might have been a salvageable evening. It was astounding, really. Nobody was
that
socially retarded. Well, not unless they'd had eighty glasses of champagne.

Ed's wheelchair glided silently on the plush maroon carpeting. Heather picked up her pace as she rounded a corner. Her grip tightened around the handles. The plastic dug into her skin. To think that she'd actually felt
lucky
to be here—

“Um, Heather?” Ed murmured, glancing over his shoulder. “I think the speed limit in the Plaza is sixty-five miles an hour. At least, that's what it is in the rest of New York State.”