Chapter 3 - The Seating Chart
I had arrived twenty minutes early and parked myself, because I wanted to be just another name on the list.
The check-in table was set up just outside the dark wood double doors, a folding table with a white cloth that didn't match the ballroom's linens. A woman with a clipboard and a headset — I remembered her as Megan from student council — was uncapping a marker when I walked up. My heels clicked on the marble outside and then went quiet on the blue patterned carpet.
"Name?" she said without looking up.
"Emily Carter," I said.
She ran her finger down the printout, found me near the bottom, and slid a peel-and-stick name tag across to me. It was the cheap kind, white with a gold border. She'd already written EMILY C. in neat block letters. No title, no company. I peeled the backing and pressed it to the strap of my ivory dress, right on the flat of my shoulder where it wouldn't pull the fabric.
"You can leave the last name off if you want," she said, finally looking at me. "Some people do. You're at Table Six, by the window. We're still finding seats for late RSVPs, so just grab any open spot at that table."
I nodded. "Table Six is perfect, thank you."
I didn't correct her. I didn't say Chairman Carter, or Carter Industries, or that my assistant had offered to call ahead and arrange a private entrance through the kitchen hall. I'd told her not to. I'd told her I wanted to check in alone, walk through the same doors everyone else used, find my own chair. If I'd wanted the title on the tag, it would have been printed for me. I wanted, for one night, to see who I was when nobody knew what I owned.
Inside, the ballroom was still half-empty. The chandeliers were all on, warm light falling straight down onto round tables with white tablecloths and gold chiavari chairs. I found Table Six and set my small clutch down at a place that had a clear stemless water glass already set. I poured from the pitcher in the center and held the glass in my right hand because I didn't know what else to do with my hands.
Lauren arrived about ten minutes later, and I heard her before I saw her.
She made a slow circuit, which was its own kind of arrival. She stopped at Table Four, then Five, hugging, laughing, holding out her left hand a beat too long each time so the chandelier could catch it. The large square pavé diamond on her finger threw a sharp white flash every time she moved. I watched the light hit the cream walls.
"Michael's been so busy," she was telling two women with their backs to me. Her voice carried. "Executive level, you know how it is. He's basically running the whole division. We're thinking of building out in Westlake now."
She said his title like it was her own. She said division like it was a kingdom. One of the women touched the ring lightly and Lauren tilted her hand to give her a better angle.
When she turned toward Table Six, I recognized her immediately. Lauren Price, back row in homeroom, always with the new notebook first week. She looked polished now, her burgundy satin catching the light, her blonde hair waved exactly right. I felt a small, familiar pull — we hadn't been close, but we'd been friendly enough to pass notes.
She got to our table and paused when she saw me.
"Emily?" she said, and her smile went wide and a little fixed. "Oh my God, Emily Carter. I didn't even — you look so... you look great."
"Lauren," I said, standing just enough to be polite. "It's good to see you."
She came in for the air-kiss, her diamond catching my eye up close, and I got a faint scent of her perfume. She stepped back and looked at my dress, my low bun, my small stud earrings, my name tag that just said EMILY C.
"I love that dress," she said, but her eyes were already doing the quick inventory I remembered from high school — shoes, bag, jewelry — sorting me into a category. My dress was simple, my necklace thin and delicate. No flash.
"Thank you," I said.
She pulled out the chair next to mine, the gold chiavari scraping lightly on the carpet, and sat. She set her clutch on the table with her ring hand up. For a few minutes we did the safe talk — who'd moved, who'd had kids — and I let her lead it. I kept my water glass in both hands on the table and answered when asked. I didn't offer anything about work, and she didn't ask directly at first. She filled the silence with updates about Michael, about the house, about the promotion he'd gotten last quarter.
At one point she leaned in, as if we were sharing something just between us, and lowered her voice a little.
"I have to say, I'm so glad you came," she said. "I know after high school not everyone — I mean, some people really struggled to find their footing."
I took a small breath before I answered. I could feel the water glass cool against my palms.
"I've been fortunate," I said.
She smiled then, the kind, generous smile of someone who thought she was about to be helpful, and glanced at my hands, my plain tag, my quiet corner seat. I realized she had already decided what my life looked like. She wasn't being cruel in her mind; she was being charitable to the girl she remembered who never tried out for anything.
That was when she shifted her chair a little closer, lifted her left hand just enough that the diamond caught the chandelier again, and said it, soft and condescending, like a favor.
May you like
"My husband could get you hired."
I looked at her hand, then at her face, and kept my expression calm. I didn't correct her then either. I chose distance over disclosure, because I had come here to be Emily C. at Table Six, not Chairman Carter, and I wanted to see how long I could stay that way.
