Chapter Text
Making friends with Sharon had been worth the trouble, no question about that. If only Moira could get her makeup right, this would be the sort of party she’d imagined when she thought about New York. She’d never even been into the Carlyle before: when she’d first come here, she’d been sure that they would recognize her immediately as someone who didn’t belong, and she’d been right. And since then, well, she’d learned to live alongside that kind of glamour. But tonight she had a reason to go. She’d been invited.
Moira had been spending most of her nights out at the Mudd Club lately, hoping to catch a glimpse of Debbie Harry. And there were plenty of nights out; after all, the alternative was a night in. Partying at the Mudd Club, she basked in the self-assuredness of the punks and the artists who came out to be seen in all their strangeness. Twenty-six—twenty, if anyone asked—felt so horrifically old to be where she was, never sure of the next job, living in an apartment with one bedroom and five other girls so that she waited until the buses all got back on their morning schedules before she even tried to make it home. She'd been in the city ten years, and while it was a thrill to find herself acting, the job was no more reliable than any of her others. Technically she could move out now, but there was nothing to say she wouldn't be crawling back in a few months. The way the people talked at the Mudd Club made her hunger feel glamorous, like if she was struggling, at least it might be worth something. Moira had never been especially drawn to art for art’s sake, which seemed demanding, but it made her feel better, like going into a church did if she missed her aunt Mary, and no matter that since she came here she hadn’t given a single thought to God.
But as much as her usual nightly crowd might look down on it, Moira couldn’t say no to luxe. Someone had invited Sharon’s boyfriend to the bar at the Carlyle, and he had invited Sharon, and Sharon had invited her. Someone else, someone who knew the boyfriend, would buy Moira’s $10 cocktails. Sharon had laughed about it the way they’d always made fun of rich people, He’s hosting a party at the Carlyle, can you even imagine, the sort of thing you said to remember that the absurdity of the wealthy was off-limits to you. But Moira was getting better and better at pretending she deserved that kind of access, the kind that followed from recognizable glamour. Moira had ended up at all sorts of fancy gatherings in New York, though after all of them she’d ended up in her room with the two abutting bunk beds. When she went to the Mudd Club and other real art scene events, she always kept her eye out for shifts in trend, a new look on someone else that might flatter her, a style falling out of favor; likewise, at upscale gatherings, she kept an eye out for looks she could mimic cheaply, hairstyles the other guests admired, mannerisms gaining prominence. The work had paid off, she knew it had. Tonight—and having finished applying her makeup, she looked it over critically, but it was perfect—she would look just like she belonged at Bemelmans.
There were enough coins in her handbag; she added tonight’s lipstick. It was two buses and a train to the Carlyle, where she would meet Sharon and go in together.
Sharon left her almost immediately. The boyfriend, whose name Moira hadn’t chosen to catch—Aaron or Eric, something with a vowel, she was pretty sure—was surrounded by friends, and he politely introduced one of them—Dan? Don?—to Moira before carting Sharon off to be displayed to the rest. Sharon would be engaged soon: the way she was dressed tonight, she had every intention of it.
Dennis traded securities, which was all Moira needed to know about him; she looked around. It was a small enough party that there was no question of who was hosting: the one with the eyebrows looked practically as though he belonged here, but he was keeping a paternal eye on everyone else, making sure their drinks were full, stepping in if anyone was alone too long. He wasn’t exactly gregarious, but he seemed to know everyone and to watch out for them. In a different world, he’d have made a good hostess. When Moira caught his eye, he offered a lift of those eyebrows and a faint smile, a look of nonrecognition but also of welcome.
She’d have gone to introduce herself—Duane would keep talking at the place where she’d been standing and remain none the wiser, probably—but another woman fit herself in beside the host before Moira could get up from the table. Her clothes were all-black, like Moira’s, but they were clearly real silk velvet, and Moira could guess from three tables over that all the chains on her neck were proper gold. Still, no need to waste time here: Moira went to the bar for another martini on the man with the face, fished out a quarter for a tip, and surveyed.
She made eye contact with a few—she made eye contact with plenty—but no one made her want to hold it. When she noticed John Cougar Mellencamp, well. He looked all right, artist enough, but he wasn’t as handsome as you’d have thought from the fame. In a bigger space, she would have ignored him, but there weren’t enough strangers like her in their party, and it would be the funniest thing she could tell Sharon about this evening—you’ll never guess who I met in a dark corner. She maintained the casual look at him until he looked back, and—oh, that was the kind of look that meant business, and she was in. He was more attractive when he made eye contact; it was harder to focus on everything else. Moira never responded to anything else like she did being wanted, and the want was plain. She didn’t put her drink down at first, but she figured Eyebrows could afford to buy her a new one later. So she walked up behind Mellencamp, put a finger on his back, and traced it slowly down.