Over the past few weeks, Lauren had rushed through the prototype and manufacturing of the Scarab of Isis necklace. Now that she was finally walking up the plush black carpeted stairs of the Metropolitan Museum on February 13, the night of the Dendur Ball, she was happy about it. The fourteen girls on the Junior Committee-seven from her class and seven from the class above her-all looked stunning wearing the piece. Crowds gathered around the museum, hoping for a glimpse of the guests, and klieg lights had been set up on Fifth Avenue, swooping through the sky, movie premiere-style. A team of police officers manned the barricades as limousines, taxicabs, and town cars pulled up, one by one, and photographers swarmed anyone notable who hit the much-discussed black carpet, an innovation that the event designer felt was much more chic than red, and more in keeping with the Dendur Balls of years past.
Inside, the girls were photographed next to the actual Scarab of Isis, which was displayed in a glass case to one side of the Temple of Dendur. Everyone marveled at how similar the two versions looked. Lauren felt she couldn’t take any credit for it-it was a copy, nothing more-but still, she was pleased that it had worked out.
She had been so busy lately, she hadn’t even had time to think about finding a date for the ball. Thankfully, Thad had volunteered to take her. She was grateful to him, once again, for coming to her rescue.
A photographer stopped Lauren and Thad and took their picture. He looked handsome in his Ralph Lauren tux, and she wore a dress that Sebastian Giroux had designed for her, a simple sea-foam green strapless gown that was a perfect backdrop to the vivid colors of the scarab pendant.
The museum was breathtaking, with its classical columns lit up and the entire staircase of the Great Hall decorated with candles that made up the shape of an ankh. It frightened Lauren a bit, this symbol that had dominated their lives, but she admitted that its representation in light was beautiful. The central information desk in the Great Hall had been transformed into a bar, with a twelve-foot-tall floral arrangement of birds-of-paradise and other lush foliage. Champagne was poured by waiters in black tie, and hors d’oeuvres were served, all vaguely Egyptian-inspired: pickled cucumbers and smoked salmon on toast points, hummus and black olive tapenade wrapped in phyllo, and batarekh, or Egyptian caviar. Dancers worked their way through the crowd, dressed in skintight outfits, their faces painted with hieroglyphics and silver and gold markings, with jewels affixed to their features. Their glittering eyes, eyebrows, and cheekbones made them sparkle like otherworldly creatures.
Lauren and Thad followed the crowds to the right, into the Sackler Wing, where round tables of ten had been set up to seat people for dinner. Some chose to find their tables and sit down, while most milled around the entryway, awed by the stunning transformation of the room. The sandstone temple was lit up with a wash of oranges, blues, and lavenders, and the body of water in front of the temple was surrounded by hundreds of votives, reflecting everything going on around it. Tables were arranged with jewel-toned linens of turquoise, chartreuse, and magenta, classic gold Chiavari ballroom chairs, orchids combined with succulents, and tabletop lanterns lit with votive candles. A platformed DJ booth and a dance floor were set up in front of the temple.
Lauren made her way through the crowd, as she overheard all the praise the renovations to the galleries were garnering. In the galleries surrounding the temple, the lighting had been improved, the carpets had been replaced, and the placards had been updated and enlarged to improve readability. Lauren noticed Parker Bell holding court with his wife, Gigi, at a prime table near the front of the temple.
She and Thad spotted Phoebe and Nick. Phoebe was wearing a 1920s flapper dress that she had found in a vintage shop; it was burgundy with gold beadwork and fit perfectly for the evening, as the Egyptian Revival-style was popular after the 1922 discovery of King Tutankhamen’s tomb. The red of Phoebe’s dress and the sea-foam of Lauren’s were beautiful together, and photographers took several more pictures of them. Even though they had been drinking champagne, they were careful to put their glasses to the side for any photographs.
Patch arrived with Lia. She looked adorable in a Marlene Dietrich-style vintage suit made of blue shantung silk, and she had done her hair in a Bettie Page cut, with straight black bangs framing her face. She looked stunning and had the most amazing shimmering burgundy lipstick: it looked like red glitter itself.
“How did you do that?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s a special thing I created,” she said. “It’s eyelash glue, and then you put glitter on it.”
“Can you eat with it? Or kiss anyone?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s a bit impractical,” Lia admitted. “You end up getting a lot of glitter in your food. But it seems to be a hit!” She posed sweetly for another photographer.
“It’s brilliant,” Lauren said. “I love it.” She looked at Patch. “You’re not looking too shabby yourself. New suit?”
“Thanks. Yeah, um, just got it the other day.”
Lauren leaned forward to take a closer look at it, and then she laughed. Sprinkled on his neck and shoulders, like stardust, was a smattering of red glitter.
“Don’t you have to start spinning?” Nick asked, looking toward the front of the temple. There was another DJ, a guy with a goatee, who was spinning.
Patch looked at his watch. “I go on in ten minutes. Can you believe it? I have an opening act! They didn’t want me to start until eight o’clock. I’d better get going.”
“Knock ’em dead,” Nick said.
At that moment Claire Chilton came up to Patch. Lauren immediately recognized Claire’s outfit: it was identical to a fabulous sketch that Sebastian Giroux had kept pinned to the concept board in his office for months, a sketch Lauren had thought would be reserved for next year’s collection. It was a black and gold dress with intricate multicolored beadwork on the bodice, the kind of dress that would have taken three seamstresses several weeks to create. Being familiar with price points, Lauren also knew that it was the kind of dress that cost about ten thousand dollars.
It suddenly made Lauren’s own relatively simple dress seem a bit drab.
Claire’s dress was more Lauren’s style, and she was feeling a bit hurt that Sebastian hadn’t made the gown for her. She knew it was silly, but she had to ask.
“Claire, how did you get that dress?”
“Oh, Sebastian designed it for me,” she said quickly, as if she couldn’t be bothered with such a quotidian matter. “Patch, they need you in the booth, like, right now. And here’s a list of music. The first list is ‘Must Play.’ The second list is ‘Do Not Play.’ My mom doesn’t want anything with profanity in it, or you know, implications of sexual activity or stuff like that. You know, keep it clean.”
“Sure, Claire, whatever,” Patch said, rolling his eyes. “This should be fun,” he muttered to Nick, loud enough so his friends could hear.
“Okay, we need you there now,” Claire said. “And the rest of you, I want to see you dancing!”
She clicked off in her heels, which looked uncomfortable.
“I guess I’m a DJ widow,” Lia said.
Phoebe grabbed her hand and motioned to a trio of performers. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. Come on, let’s go check out those fire-eaters.”