The Better Sister - Alafair Burke
Fourteen Years Earlier
I betrayed my sister while standing on the main stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in a beaded Versace gown (borrowed) and five-inch stiletto heels (never worn again).
At the time, I never could have scored an invitation—or been able to afford a ticket—to the Met Gala in my own right. I was the guest of my boss, Catherine Lancaster, the editor in chief of City Woman magazine. She wasn’t even my boss. She was my boss’s boss’s boss. And somehow she personally invited me.
Well, not personally. She had her assistant swing by my cubicle to deliver the message, which turned out to be a good thing, because my immediate RSVP was laughter. Not even a normal-person laugh. More like a snort. Even back then, the so-called Party of the Year was paparazzi porn, a celebrity-soaked, fashion-focused spectacle. The idea of me—the bookish new member of the writing staff—hobnobbing with rock stars, Oscar winners, and supermodels was ridiculous. So I snort-laughed.
The assistant hid neither her disapproval nor her eye roll, but I assured her that I was honored to accept. Then, after pulling up photos of last year’s event from the magazine archives, I went about begging my friend Kate, who worked at Cosmo, to smuggle out a suitable dress for me to borrow. Fake it till you make it, as they say.
She was downright gleeful when she handed me the garment bag. “It’s Versace. And it has pockets!”
Catherine even offered to have her driver pick me up at my apartment prior to the event. If she had been a man, I would have been worried about what I’d gotten myself into. Instead, I felt like Cinderella going to the ball. Because she was a woman, I trusted her.
She validated that instinct when she joined me in the back seat of the car outside her Upper East Side town house and told me she had invited me because she was impressed by a sidebar I had written about Take Back the Night events on college campuses. The main piece was about two child actresses—famous twins—starting their college careers at NYU. But when I heard that one of the sisters was active in organizing NYU’s annual event for survivors of sexual abuse, I pitched the idea to City Woman.
Catherine told me I had “a smart gut,” and that the best advice she could give me was to learn to trust it. Times were changing. “People think we’re watching Sex and the City for the clothes and the orgasm banter, but it’s feminism disguised as dramedy. Another wave is building. It’s just a matter of time before the floodgates break, and women like you will be the ones to write the stories.”
Way better than Cinderella. All she got out of the night was a prince. I was going to have a career.
When we arrived, not even Catherine merited the attention of the photographers snapping away on the front steps. But once we were inside, a voice called out, “Oh, Catherine, perfect timing. Join us for the step-and-repeat.”
As she jumped into her spot before the backdrop banner for official event photos, she thrust her purse at me, silently mouthing a “Thanks, can you find the bar?” before she left me on my own. The bag was a sequined clutch emblazoned with a Venus symbol, which City Woman used as the O in our magazine title. It was a clever accessory for the evening, but I allowed myself a beat of pride that my borrowed dress had pockets big enough for a lipstick, cash, and my company-issued cell phone. No bag necessary.
I found the bar as instructed and then realized I had no idea what Catherine would want to drink. In light of her Sex and the City reference in the car, I ordered two cosmos, tucked her clutch between my waist and elbow, and managed to teeter my way back to the step-and-repeat. By the time she finally extricated herself from the photography session, I was done with my drink and ready to start on hers. When she rejoined me, she grabbed the drink, but not her purse.
“Catherine . . .” I held up the sequined clutch.
She was hugging a fashion designer.
“Do you need . . .”
Then the mayor.
I ended up following her around with that stupid purse all night long, leaving only to get drinks, which I decided to vary wildly as the night went on. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything—and Catherine Lancaster would definitely speak up if she