The Vultures

SIX

Anabella's hands are dry and coarse, as if they hadn't been properly moisturized in a long time. Her nails are neglected, and her fingers, long, and thin, exhibit bite marks. Up-close, really close, the imperfections on her face are clear: her cheeks are sunken, her eye bags are prominent and her lips are dry. She's still so very attractive, and she reminds me of a nineties model, when the heroin chic was trendy, but her eyes are dim, no light nor spark to let me know there's life on them, as if Anabella Sullyvan was only heroin and alcohol, with nothing in between.

We walk, silently, and cross the sitting room, we turn right and now we're on the ample dining room. The looks of certain guests follow us; follow her, actually, and find me instead, probably wondering who I am and what I'm doing with her, but it's something.

It's something.

I like the attention, I always have. In this life, the worst thing you can be is forgettable. Winners are those who always leave an impression, wherever they go. One of the great achievements of my life so far, sad as it may sound, is having been chosen "Most Likely to be Remembered" in high school. Ever since I opened my Facebook page, I made sure to only friend those who were relevant in high school and college. I like to be remembered. I need to be remembered. If they don't remember you, it's like you don't even exist, as if your life didn't matter.

"Can you tell me who we're looking for?" I ask when we finally stop in the middle of the dining room. "Maybe I could you find him."

"I'm sure you can," she answers, without turning around. "But then you'd ruin the surprise. Besides, we don't need to find her."

"And why is that?"

"Because she's already here."

Anabella points at someone behind me, and I immediately turn around to end that ridiculous little game, once and for all.

The woman in front of me is quite beautiful. Her eyes are green, very bright and very deep, and I correctly guess I'll feel very uncomfortable looking at them. Her skin is tanned, naturally, not artificially, and her hair is long, very black and shiny, and is styled, tonight, in a high bun that makes her look matronly. She's wearing a gray dress, embroidered with several multicolored crystals, that tingle loud and annoyingly every time the light touches them.

I know perfectly well who this woman is, everybody in here knows it. She's more famous than anyone else present, and she's nothing like her picture; she's even more stunning in person. I know she's from California, but she doesn't look like a California Girl, whatever that means. No, this woman has that classic Upper East Side elegance. She could be wearing those tacky and cheap-looking Juicy sweatpants, and she'd still be classy.

This is a woman worth knowing. She owns this apartment, after all.

"Lucia, I want you to meet Alec..." Anabella stops mid-sentence and it takes me a little while to understand why.

"Láster, Alec Láster," I quickly finish, flashing my brightest smile.

"Alec is a reporter and he wants to ask you some questions," Anabella continues, as she reaches out to grab a new glass of champagne.

"Reporter, you said?" says Lucia, glancing judgmentally at Anabella, who's already emptying the glass, apparently forgetting about us.

""New York Eye"," I say, nodding firmly. "We appreciate the invitation."

"Well of course, our friends on the press are always welcome," she says in her most polite tone.

"Nights such as these must be cause for pride, I imagine. You and you husband have been extremely generous with this Foundation."