Things are going to speed up a bit after this chapter just so that I can get to 1985.
No. 9
A month and a half later, Adrian leaves for London in order to oversee the construction of a sector of Veidt Industries. With that, I move back into my old apartment for the week that he's gone. Shortly after, though, the elderly Mrs. Bergenson from upstairs needs help moving out, and I can't help but agree - I've heard of many people who've been robbed by their movers, not to mention that she had no other relatives to help her and yet she's helped me out many times in the past. But that's not quite the real reason I want to stay. There's something else as well - that sense of nostalgia when I step inside my apartment for the first time in two years. It's almost like a vague homesickness, but not really - a longing for the past, when there wasn't the thought that Times Square could become ground zero. When we were all a little younger. Adrian is crushed but eventually agrees after I explain this to him, saying that the time away will give him the boost needed to finish up the middle stages of his project and hopefully end all of this madness.
A few days into my stay, a large package arrives in the mail. It's too light to be anything dangerous, and so I bring it into my bedroom and set it atop the roughed-up wooden table before going to grab a pair of scissors. The cardboard is smooth under my chafed fingertips as I slit the packing tape and open it. Inside, under voluminous amounts of large packing bubbles, is something soft and whispery in dark red-purple.
I lift it out and it spills out of my arms, trailing over the floor. A beautiful aubergine-colored dress; high waisted with a short train studded with tiny rhinestones that glitter with the gray light from outside. A pale square of white catches my attention from within the box, and, still in shock, I set the expensive fabric onto the ratty covers on my bed and take out a small, cream-colored card. I squint at the perfect writing in fine black ink.
/
It would be an honor for you to attend the Veidt Enterprises fundraising gala with me this coming Saturday. I will send a driver to pick you up at six-thirty.
-Adrian
/
"Aw, crap."
For weeks Adrian had been following me around, all but begging me to come to a public event with him. "I want to show you off to the world, my witty, beautiful Lena. I want to make you a queen. My queen," he'd said very seriously.
"What, you sure it's not just to chase off all the cougars and gold-diggers?"
His face turned grim and I laughed so hard I choked on the cereal in my mouth. Out of unease I hadn't really said 'yes', though inside I was curious to see how Adrian handled things outside of our lives. Four years and I'd never been to a single one of his parties or charity drives. But now, here he'd bought me this dress that must have cost half a year of my income.
"Damn, what a smooth fucker," I sigh again. He knew I wouldn't be able to turn him down - not if he buys me everything and accommodates my every need. A nagging feeling in my mind tells me to at least try it on – it had been so long since I'd worn anything other than civvies and my suit, and I wanted to feel…pretty, for once.
I strip and pick up the layers of chiffon and silk, raising it over my head and awkwardly pulling down, wary of any sort of ripping noise. The fabric slides coldly over my bare arms and back, and I adjust the dress across my shoulders. Thankfully, the zipper was high enough and my arms flexible enough to reach behind me and zip the dress up myself.
I slowly shuffle over to the mirror by my dresser, and as I stop to look, a small smile appears on my face. The bags under my eyes and the locks of matted hair on my head are still there, along with a fading bruise on my upper arm from where a mugger had grabbed me a week ago, and yet the dress clings to my body, accentuating my curves. I feel like a little girl playing dress-up with my mother's clothing and I blush again, embarrassed despite my being alone, and reach up to adjust my hair a little.
Two hours. It couldn't be that bad.
Saturday afternoon rolls around despite my insistent towards whatever heavenly figure to prevent its happening, and I'm sitting in my room again, staring blankly out the window onto the bright neon purple lights of the diner below.
This can't be happening.
I turn to look at the dress – it's hanging by a dingy wire coat hanger from my "clothesline" trailing from wall to wall – and sigh. An open breeze trails through the window, bringing with it the smell of gasoline and deep fried foods from the diner, and the sparkling length sways in the wind, flashing multicolored sparkles in the dullness of my room.
"Stop it," I say, frustrated.
I don't know much about makeup or about hair, and as the seconds tick by I feel even more nervous. I would (probably) be coming out as Adrian Veidt's romantic interest. In front of the richest people on the East Coast.
My watch timer goes off, startling me from my dismal thoughts, and I curse, seeing the time. A little less than an hour before I should be ready. When I stand I trip over an extension cord and slam my forearms down on my table hard enough that I yelp, twin bruises forming on my skin. Shit. No amount of concealer or whatever-the-fuck-it-was-that-women-put-on would cover those. A wave of annoyance and resignation fills me and I sigh heavily, again, as I turn towards the shower.
Once I'm standing in the small white space, the hot water rushing over my skin lulls me into a soft comfort. The tiles squeak wet under my feet as I step out and dry myself, pulling on my underclothes. Outside, the dress is waiting for me, the pale silvery-gold thread winking in the dying light from the window.
After I'm done putting on the dress, I pull my hair up into a messy bun, rummaging in the dusty bottom of my drawers and triumphantly retrieving a scratched tube of lipstick and a stub of eyeliner. In front of the mirror, I sigh, wriggling my eyebrows several times as I try to will some sort of positive expression into my face. I carefully draw over my eyelids a simple stroke of black and apply the lipstick over my mouth. I screw my face up as I appraise my pale cheeks. Decisively, I swipe my thumb over the lipstick and spread the layer of makeshift rouge over the apples of my cheeks.
"You got this, kiddo," I mutter unconvincingly to my reflection.
I hear a buzzing from my door, and walk over to see the driver standing outside, his face warped in the small tunnel of the viewhole. My door squeaks on its hinges as I push it open, and I cringe as I imagine what the other man is thinking about the sketchiness of my apartment. But he says nothing, merely nods at me and I follow him out the hallway, down the dilapidated stairs and outside into the moss-stained sidewalk and the shining black limousine. The coolness of the air outside soothes the sore bruises on my arms, and when he opens the door I sit down inside.
I nervously pick at a peeling spot on my fingernails as the seedier parts of New York city speed by, giving way to glimmering steel and shining glass. The air-conditioned interior of the car only makes me more anxious and my stomach coils as the car gently pulls to a stop outside the grandness of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
The driver steps out and walks over to my side, opening the door for me and extending a white-gloved hand. I hope he can't feel the way my hand is shaking, but he gives me a half-smile when my eyes dart nervously around.
In the darkness of night, pale fairy lights trail around the lawn and park surrounding the Met. Large sconces are lit on the outside marble walls, casting a warm cream-yellowed glow up the corinthian columns and colorful tapestries. Across the shining step, I can hear the dull murmur of the paparazzi, reporters and journalists at the entrance of the building.
"Mr. Veidt will join you in the main hall, Miss."
"Thank you."
He only nods, gives a slight bow and opens the driver side of the limousine, sitting back in.
Thankfully, I barely get any attention as I make my way across the plaza and onto the stone steps. Tonight, the iconic water fountain is backlit by purple lights so that the dome of water gleams with the color of royalty. It's much brighter inside, the giant entrance hall filled with a pleasant yellowed glow. After I check in at the reception, I'm ushered into the main gallery, where I look around, trying to get a grasp of my surroundings. Everywhere there are people dressed in silks and fabrics so decadent and rich that I can barely tear my eyes away. Jewels sparkle as a woman beside me flicks her hand mid-laugh, and I stare at the diamonds around her throat, at the pale blue topaz gems in her ears, feeling uncomfortable and suddenly wary of all the people around - people who were so different from me, people who might not even care. I move towards the side of the main room instead, snagging an appetizer from the catering table. A waiter steps by, holding a tray aloft with crystal flutes of champagne. I pick one up, hoping it'll rid me of the buzzing nervousness in my stomach.
Relief fills me when I find a head of pale blond hair and shades of purple. Even though Adrian is mingling on the floor with the other people, it's very clear that tonight he's the center of attention – heads turn whenever he laughs, and people squeeze forward, trying to talk to him at any given chance. Adrian sees me from across the heads of hundreds of people and I blush, grinning at him.
"Excuse me," he says to the old couple he'd been talking with as he walks towards me. The heavy-jowled man looks flustered and angry but says nothing as he mutters something to his wife and they walk away. I smile sheepishly as I awkwardly extend an arm, and he brings my hand to his lips, gently kissing my knuckles.
"My love."
"Adrian." I counter with a smile.
"So. It wasn't bad, was it?" His eyes are sparkling with delight in the warm atmosphere. "I trust no one mobbed you at the front?"
I laugh, but suddenly his brow furrows as he looks down at my arms. "What?"
"Where did you get these?" He brushes his fingertips against my forearms, causing the bruises to sting.
"Uh, it was nothing. I kinda, um, fell down in my bedroom."
His frown immediately lifts, though his fingers are still gently stroking up and down my skin. "Clumsy." I roll my eyes at the teasing lilt in his voice, and he laughs. "So, how is your...apartment?"
"C'mon, Adrian. It's a pretty nice…...okay, it's bearable. There were, like, four spiders living in these cracks in the bathroom ceiling." I shudder at the memory. "But I can't let you buy an apartment for me! Besides, I'm pretty sure my friends still think I'm, y'know, 'poor college researcher' or whatever. It'll be fine. I'll come back next week."
He relents, releasing my arm and instead reaching up to brush the hair back from my eyes. "I look forward to it. It's lonely up there without you by my side, dear."
"I miss you, too." I smile. "Thank you for the, um, the dress."
"It's to your liking, right?"
"It's beautiful." I frown. "How much did it-"
"Ah-ah-ah, I can't tell you. Isn't it okay for me to just buy things for you, dear?"
It really is a nice dress, and I accede with a sigh. "Fine."
We chat for a while about everything that's been happening, from the new ice cream-donut-coffeeshop that opened down the street from my apartment to how, at Karnak Bubastis apparently ate some spoiled food she'd found and was terribly sick and grumpy. I laugh at the image in my head and Adrian pouts, saying how she'd broken a glass display housing his favorite set of Greek armor. The song being played changes as we keep talking, and he pauses mid-sentence, placing his hand on top of mine.
"Would you do me the honor of one single dance?"
At my dubious nod, Adrian takes my hand and leads me into the center of the dance floor, where different colors of marble and granite are splayed in a giant star-array. Couples part in his way and I blush at the murmurs and voices I can hear when he sweeps me up against him, our right hands clasped together and his left hand warm on my side, mine reaching up to rest on his shoulder.
The music starts slow, and Adrian guides me through a simple waltz. After a minute I grow used to the flowing motion accompanying the rhythm of the string quartet. Right step forward, step to the side, close together. Left foot forward, step to the other side, close together.
A camera flashes off to my right and in my surprise I nearly trip as my foot slips in the heels, though Adrian balances me just in time. My cheeks are burning and I blink, looking at his warm blue eyes and trying to find the calm that had been there only a moment ago.
"You're blushing, darling." His fingers lace securely through mine and he gives my hand a little squeeze. I take a deep breath and his gaze fills with concern.
"I...Adrian, they're all looking at us."
A satisfied smirk curls onto his lips as more paparazzi begin to approach, snapping pictures and speculating in mutters and whispers. "They should be."
The orchestral music crescendos and I feel Adrian's hand move to the space in between my shoulderblades as he dips me. I gasp at the sudden shift to weightlessness, and he grins as I unintentionally wrap both arms around his neck in an attempt not to fall. "I won't drop you, Lena." he murmurs softly as he pulls me back up.
And then his lips are on mine and I kiss back, feeling my heart swell with love at the way he smiles against my mouth. The crowd begins to clap politely though I can sense their confusion; some of the people are probably irritated by this display, but I'm filled with such emotion that I can barely find the usual embarrassment to care.
I break the kiss and Adrian sighs, our foreheads touching. Eventually the crowd fills in the gaps on the dance floor again; surrounded by other couples, I hug Adrian, wanting to stay in this bubble of safety for the foreseeable future.
"Mr. Veidt." I jump a little and look behind Adrian and see an impatient-looking man. "Could I speak with you? In private?"
"Mr. Iacocca." My eyes widen when I realize who Adrian is talking to. He smiles, but his voice is cold."I am busy right now, as you can see-"
I place my hand on his, looking up at him. "It's fine, Adrian. You should go." He's silent for a beat, staring at our joined hands. "I-"
He leans in, voice quiet enough that only I can hear him. "Meet me in the Sackler Wing. Fifteen minutes." Adrian steps away, plastering an annoyed grin onto his face as he turns to Lee Iacocca. "Shall we?"
I wander for quite some time through the vast halls of the Met. With each room I pass the occupants decrease until it's just me and the history of the art world. Eventually I make it to the Sackler Wing and pause just inside the door, astounded by the spectacle inside.
In the silence the room feels so very empty - yet somehow resplendent in its starkness. The gigantic three story tall floor-to-ceiling windows show the pale shadows of sloping grass; the forest outside and the city and stars beyond that. Moonlight causes webbed shadows from the window to fall on the floor; ruled lines and spears where there's no light at all. The square pool is still in a marvelously delicate way and in its reflection I can see the dark blue night sky outside
The Temple of Dendur sits in the center of the massive room, unadorned and simple in the expansive space. Lit up by floorlights that shine on the sepia limestone, the glow from the small building gives the whole area an ethereal feeling - yellow in contrast to the midnight blue in the windows. Dark granite lines the rivers of water surrounding the plaza. At this hour the water fountains are silent and still, and I can see the copper gleam of coins at the bottom of the pools.
I walk closer to the temple, my heels clicking unevenly across the floor. It feels strange to view such a old, earthly structure in a place so clean and gleaming and new. Built in Egypt in 15 BCE and here today, and it may even survive to the 21st century. And it's perplexing to realize - the memories people choose to keep are quite subjective. Some are based on legacy - power, innovation, goodness. Others on the small sentiments we keep; wooden toy cars, a paste ring from a grandmother. This was a little bit of both, and I smile as I notice the old graffiti carved onto the stone, so strange a juxtaposition to the rows on rows of neat hieroglyphics.
After exploring the small temple I walk over and sit down on a ledge of stone lining the fountains, kicking the heels off and swiging my legs loosely. For the first time tonight, with no one around and no kind of social obligation to smile and make small talk, I allow myself to relax. The quietude makes it easy for me to hear the gentle, faint sound of an owl hooting outside, and I turn my head towards the windows. In the corner of my eye, I can see the way the numerous tiny gems on my dress sparkle dimly in the pale light. The way they flash like fleeting little ideas - formless thoughts and emotion.
It is very quiet.
Just then, I begin to hear the sound of footsteps coming from the entrance to the wing. A door swings open and I shiver in the cold, letting my fingers squeeze the edge of the granite where it's unpolished and rough.
A shadow falls across the entrance to the wing, and a moment later he walks in.
"Hi." I feel soft and tiny; all of a sudden filled with a strange apprehension, and yet I smile unconsciously as my eyes follow his movements. I stand as he walks up the stairs onto the platform.
"Hello."
"So, what's your big surprise? Are you gonna-" I look away, my hand trembling as I brush a strand of hair from my neck. My voice breaks a little as I gesture awkwardly at the room, at the temple that stands resolutely and unchanging. "y'know, tell me you bought this temple or someth-...Oh… my god."
By the time I turn around Adrian is on one knee before me, and as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box I find myself completely speechless. He looks up and his eyes are full of so many unspoken words, the tenderness making me feel weak.
And, really, it's incredible - I've seen him poised, I've seen him contented and relaxed, angry and sad, quiet and prideful and arrogant; I've seen him as Adrian and as Mr. Veidt and as Ozymandias. But I've never seen him like this - whole and raw. Like he's so afraid of the fact that - that he doesn't know what's going to happen next. Fear from uncertainty.
"Madeline Grayson." He pauses, and then smiles softly, his eyes lingering on my parted lips before he looks up to meet my eyes. "You have helped so many people. Just as you have helped me. Just as you have made me feel less alone." His German accent grows more pronounced and his voice flows smooth and intent over the words. "You have...everything that I can give to you. And I have never cared for - never loved - someone as much as I love you, and I cannot even hope to find someone as perfect as you are to me."
The box clicks open, and even in the enveloping darkness the old golden light from the temple causes the precious gemstones inside to sparkle. It is more beautiful, more meaningful than anything I could've imagined. I look at him again and my hand goes to cover my mouth as he whispers those four words, his voice steady.
"Lena, will you marry me?"
"Yes. Yes, Adrian."
He rises and my breath catches in my throat as he takes my right hand and slides the silver band onto my ring finger - and it feels right, it feels so wonderfully right. I tilt my head up when Adrian cups my jaw in one hand, and his mouth slants over mine. The kiss is so sweet and tender that it almost hurts - and it does. So much unspeakable joy and love I feel for him. He moans softly and I sigh, melting into his chest as my fingers reach up to stroke the curled hairs at the nape of his neck. When he finally pulls away we're both panting softly. His lips curl into a grin and I smile back shyly, amazed at this bright, beautiful man.
He has me, wholly, as I have him.
And I couldn't want for anything else.
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