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Annie

New York City, 1978

Annie raced home to get dressed for the Met Gala. She’d spent most of the day dealing with Mrs. Vreeland’s last-minute adjustments to the exhibition and still had to pick up the butterflies at the Museum of Natural History. Joyce was supposed to help Annie with her updo, but she wasn’t home yet.

Annie slid into her dress and gave a little shimmy. It had come out perfectly, and she loved the way the material subtly suggested the shape of her body as she moved. While she waited for Joyce, she applied her own makeup, but instead of heavy foundation and lots of color, she opted for a minimal look, emphasizing her eyebrows and lips only. In the mirror, the color of her eyes, hair, and dress became one soft, golden hue. Just as Mrs. Vreeland had said, by focusing on what made her unique—in this case her natural glow—she’d turned it into something interesting. Same with the rings on her fingers—she wore two chunky rings on one hand and three on the other, and the jewelry provided a nice balance. She’d created a look that worked with her own body type and personality.

The last time she’d gotten this dressed up had been a disaster, and she was determined not to repeat it. Her junior year of high school, everyone went to the prom, whether they had a date or not, and Annie spent a good month working on her dress. She found a pattern that was similar to a maxi dress she’d seen in a magazine: navy with long sleeves, a ruffled collar, and a mix of large and small polka dots. It was from the Dior 1970 spring/summer haute couture collection, perfectly accessorized with a wide black leather belt.

“It’s smart to keep your arms and legs covered, and I like the high neck as well,” her mother had said as Annie modeled it the night of the prom. “How about I do your makeup and hair?”

Annie had sat in the kitchen chair as her mother spread the contents of her professional makeup kit—which was the size of a small suitcase—across the table. “We’ll go with a bright pink lipstick and tan foundation,” Joyce said. “That will take care of the ruddiness of your skin, and we don’t want to accent those chubby cheeks of yours. For the eyes, I have a navy shadow that perfectly matches the dress.”

When Annie looked in the mirror after she’d finished, she had mixed feelings. Her skin tone was far from her natural one, veering toward orange, and her eyes practically disappeared into her skull. The cascade of curls in her hair was already going limp, but Joyce sprayed them with a generous layer of Aqua Net that made Annie’s eyes water.

Joyce was a professional model; Annie just had to trust her.

Annie had walked into the gym where the prom was being held to discover all the other girls wearing layers of lacy pastels with empire waists, like a flock of Bo-Peeps missing their sheep, and long, straight hair with little or no makeup. In comparison, Annie looked like a Mack Truck wearing lipstick. No one spoke to her other than the geography teacher, Mr. Williams. She’d held out for twenty-five minutes before fleeing.

Tonight, at the Party of the Year, it would be different.

The front door opened and slammed shut.

“Mom?” Annie called out. “Where have you been? I have to be out of here in ten minutes.”

Joyce came up from behind Annie in the bathroom. She stared intently into the mirror. “Wow. That’s some look you’ve got going there.”

The vagueness of the statement made Annie uneasy. Maybe she had no idea what she was doing, and this was going to be another debacle where she’d be laughed out of the museum and find herself out of a job.

“I like it,” she said weakly.

“Do you want me to do your eyes?”

“No. I’m going to leave them like this.”

She diverted her mother’s attention, worried that she’d insist on doing it her way. “Do you want to try on your dress before I go? We’ll meet in the Great Hall, okay? I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Vreeland, and I made sure you’re sitting at a good table for dinner. Your hair looks nice. Were you just at the salon?” With Annie’s new salary, the thought of spending money on a hairdresser didn’t set off financial alarm bells in her head the way it used to.

Joyce patted her coiffure. “Thanks. But I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight.”

Annie spun around. “What? You’re not going? Why not?”

“Brad called. He wants to meet.”

After everything that Annie had done to finagle a ticket and alter one of Joyce’s dresses to her exact specifications, she couldn’t even be bothered to go? Annie had even fought to get her an invitation to the VIP tour. Until now, she hadn’t understood how desperately she wanted her mother to see her in a new light, not as her homely daughter but as an integral part of the team behind the Met Gala.

“He’s just going to break up with you, Mom,” said Annie, not caring how mean she sounded. “Are you really going to skip this amazing event, which anyone in their right mind would be dying to attend, in order to get dumped by Brad?”

Joyce’s eyes began to water, and she twisted the wishbone necklace that lay in the hollow of her throat. The necklace had been Annie’s father’s last Christmas gift to Joyce, and she never took it off. “You’re a cruel child, do you know that?”

“I’m not. I just think you’re making a mistake. Can’t you put him off for one night?”

“He leaves for the West Coast tomorrow. And I want to see this through. I have to see this through, for my own sanity.”

Sanity would be not getting involved with a stranger from Nashville in the first place. “He’s probably married. Why do you allow him to treat you like this? You deserve better.”

“Watch it. Remember who you’re talking to, Annie.”

Annie threw up her hands. “Fine. Do what you like. I don’t care.”

“Is that how you’re wearing that dress?” asked Joyce. “Don’t you want to belt it?”

Annie stifled a scream. “I really don’t want to talk to you right now. I’m very disappointed.” She grabbed a clip that lay on top of the sink and hastily put her hair up in a messy bun.

Joyce sat on the bed, working herself up to a good weep. “Please don’t be mad at me. I really like Brad, and maybe I can change his mind.”

“I’m leaving.” Annie grabbed her handbag and coat. “You are unbelievable.”

Normally Annie wouldn’t even consider leaving her mother when she was crying or upset. In the past, she’d drop everything to comfort her, do whatever it took to make everything okay between them. But not this time. She was too angry.

Outside, Mrs. H called out from her window. “Girl! Let me see that dress.”

Annie opened her coat, letting it fall to her elbows.

“It’s smashing. I see Mrs. Vreeland is rubbing off on you.”

Annie pulled her coat back up and smiled. That was exactly the boost she needed. “Thank you.” She gave a quick salute and was gone.

Outside the Metropolitan Museum, a red carpet spilled down the front steps like a river of merlot, and the first of the limos was pulling up to the curb, where a clique of photographers waited patiently for their prey.

Annie watched with bated breath as Lee Radziwill alighted from the back of a limo wearing an ivory silk dress that was fitted at the waist, with an enormous white stole slung over her shoulders that threatened to swallow her whole. Diana Ross turned heads in a long-sleeved black gown that shimmered with sequins and sported a plunging neckline as well as a matching veil. The dress was stunning, but Annie wasn’t so sure about the choice of a veil. She’d have to ask Mrs. Vreeland her thoughts on the subject tomorrow.

They were followed by fashion photographer Mary Ann Miller and model Dymphna Kerrigan. Mary Ann, a petite redhead, wore a sparkling pink toga dress with a large bow over one shoulder, while Dymphna was squeezed into in a bright red sheath that accentuated her curves. Her wrists and neck glittered with diamonds.

The crowd of bystanders gasped as the downtown artist Jenny Pyle spilled out of her limo in a beaded jumpsuit and platform heels, her famous curls dyed jet-black.

Annie could’ve stood there for hours, marveling at the stylishness of each celebrity. Instead, she marched over to the employee entrance, where the security guard greeted her with a scowl.

“You’ll have to open the box.”

“If I open it, it’ll be ruined,” she explained. “This is a very special package for Mrs. Vreeland, and she needs it tonight, right away.”

After the argument with Joyce about the gala, she’d taken the bus across the park to the Museum of Natural History and spent far more time than she’d expected running from office to office in search of the entomologist who’d promised her butterflies. Finally, she was handed a box that was ungainly in size but light in weight and caught a taxi to the Met, setting the box gently on the seat beside her and steadying it with one hand as the driver raced along the 79th Street Transverse.

The exhibition was about to open, and she should be by Mrs. Vreeland’s side, but now the security guard was insisting she open the box, which would not do at all. Her feet hurt from running in heels and a drop of sweat slid down her chest. Just her luck, it was an unusually warm day for late November.

The security guard appeared to be unimpressed by her fancy outfit and her association with Mrs. Vreeland.

“Nope. Open it up.”

“Hey, Carl. She’s okay. I’ll vouch for her.”

Annie looked to her right, where Billy was signing in for his shift. Carl gave her the once-over and then nodded. “All right. Go ahead.”

“You saved the day,” said Annie as she and Billy walked down the hall together. “Thank you so much. I’m late and this is crucial to the evening. Just crucial .”

She was speaking in the same cadence as Mrs. Vreeland, and the thought made her smile.

“I can only imagine,” said Billy. “You must be excited for tonight.”

“Excited. And nervous.” And disappointed that Joyce wouldn’t be waiting for her upstairs. But she didn’t say that out loud.

“You look terrific.”

“Well, thanks. All the heavyweights of New York high society are here, I figure I should look the part.”

“You look better than any of them, I’m sure.”

Annie blushed and couldn’t think of what to say back. In many ways, Billy came off as younger than Annie. He lacked the weight of the world that she carried around with her; his attitude was always positive. She envied that about him.

“Hey,” said Billy. “At some point, we should meet up for a pizza or something. That way you can see me in my natural state.”

“Natural state?”

Billy slapped the side of his face. “What am I saying? I’m such a dolt. I mean, not wearing a blue suit. Wearing normal clothes.”

He was asking her out on a date. She thought that was an excellent idea and said so.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll figure something out.”

In Mrs. Vreeland’s office, Annie took a moment to collect herself. She was about to attend the Party of the Year, and Billy the adorable security guard had just asked her out. Life couldn’t get better than this. She turned off the light and closed the door and prayed that the butterflies would be safe until the big reveal later in the evening. Leave it to Mrs. Vreeland to come up with the craziest ideas.

But the woman knew what she was doing—that much was clear as soon as Annie stepped into the exhibition, where a bevy of society ladies with white teeth and skinny arms wandered the space. Annie had only seen the exhibition with the harsh overhead lights on; under the designer’s lighting, each costume seemed like it was lit from within, as if one of the mannequins might at any moment come to life and dance up the stairs, join in on the cocktail party raging in the Great Hall. Diaghilev’s bold use of color and style made each tableau unique, but Mrs. Vreeland’s extra touches—like the peacocks perched on the shoulders of the peacock bearers from Le Dieu Bleu , the classical music playing in the background, and the subtle bouquet of perfume that tickled the nose—elevated what was ostensibly a textile display to a joyous celebration. Annie could just imagine what it had been like in Paris back in 1909, when Diaghilev founded the Ballets Russes. As the curtain rose, the audience must have gasped in shock at the staggering strangeness and beauty of it all.

Mrs. Vreeland had magically re-created a moment long past.

Annie knew she should find her boss and see what needed to be done, but she took a few moments to wander the exhibition first, stifling a yelp when she spotted the Egyptian broad collar sparkling on the chest of the mannequin wearing the Zobeida costume. Annie felt as proud as the archaeologist who first pulled it up from the Saharan sand or wherever these things came from.

The biggest draws were the Nijinsky costume from Swan Lake and the ones by Matisse from the Stravinsky ballet whose name Annie didn’t dare try to pronounce. She had learned so much in such a short amount of time. The sting of disappointment over her mother’s absence faded, replaced by a sense of purpose and pride.

In the Great Hall, Annie spotted Mrs. Vreeland standing at the center of a crowd, wearing a flowery velvet dress by Givenchy. Velvet seemed to be a trend, as Pat Buckley, one of the gala’s co-chairs, wore a similar design but in brown. Mrs. Vreeland smiled at Annie from across the way but then turned her attention to Bill Blass, tucking her arm into his as they headed into the restaurant for the dinner portion of the evening. The rest of the crowd followed, including Priscilla and Mona with their husbands. Priscilla looked stunning in an embroidered, wine-colored sheath, and Mona’s aqua gown contrasted beautifully with her dark hair.

Annie hovered along the edges of the room during dinner, too nervous to be hungry. A feathered fan in the perfect shade of yellow lay lightly on each place setting, and the guests appeared to enjoy the three courses. Mrs. Vreeland barely touched her plate, and near the end of the meal she stood and surveyed the room.

“May I have your attention, please.” She waited with her head thrown back, one arm raised as the murmuring subsided, holding her champagne flute as if it were an Olympic torch. “On May 19, 1909, at the Théatre du Chatelet in Paris, Russian genius Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev astounded the audience with a performance by his Ballets Russes, one that dance critic John Percival wrote ‘transformed ballet and sparked off a flamboyant revolution in fashion and interior design.’ Diaghilev’s career was one of collaboration with some of the greats of that century, including Debussy, Stravinsky, Cocteau, Ravel, Picasso, Prokofiev, and Balanchine, and my hope is that tonight you’ve gotten a sense of this man, a self-described cheeky charmer and unprincipled charlatan who radically changed the course of cultural history. I thank all the dedicated workers who helped us mount this show, and all of you for your support of this wonderful institution. And now, I encourage you to join us for dessert and dancing at the Temple of Dendur.”

Mrs. Vreeland led the way, taking tiny steps like a Japanese geisha because she disliked the sound of women’s heels hitting the floor. Annie had learned that fact only two days ago, when Mrs. Vreeland had admonished her for “galumphing like a heathen.” At the entrance to the Temple of Dendur gallery Annie paused, taking in the scene. In the darkness of night, it was as if the temple floated above the shallow pools of water surrounding the ancient structure on three sides. The crowd had grown in size, and the music was loud; the pounding of the bass made Annie’s head spin. Everyone appeared to be having a great time except the security guards, who were busy asking guests not to lean on the black stone statues that lined the near wall. She saw no sign of Billy.

“It’s time for the VIP tour.” Mrs. Vreeland appeared at Annie’s side. “I’ll see you in the exhibition hall—just wait for my signal. I can’t wait to see what you’ve conjured.”

“Of course.”

“And you look smashing , by the way.”

Annie stammered her thanks and began to express her gratitude for the opportunity to be her assistant, but Mrs. Vreeland was gone before she could get the words out.

She sprinted down to the exhibition hall and out the door that led to the basement hallway. She was gathering up the butterfly box from Mrs. Vreeland’s desk when she heard footsteps.

She froze. “Hello? Mrs. Vreeland?”

There was no answer. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights or close the door to the Costume Institute behind her when she came in. Yet the door was now shut, the expanse pitch-black.

“Hello?” Annie’s voice came out wobbly. “Is anyone there?”

She stood still, listening intently, but the only sound was her own breath and the gentle fluttering of the butterflies in the box in her arms, like baby heartbeats.

One of the guards must have come by and closed the door. She put her head down and charged out of the room, relieved when she reached the well-lit hallway.

Back in the exhibition hall, Annie made her way to one corner and crouched down with the box, trying not to be seen. The VIP tour had already begun, and Annie recognized the mayor and the museum director, along with a dozen or so others who were admiring the brightly printed tunics and shorts by the painter Léon Bakst. They listened intently as Mrs. Vreeland expounded on the design. “I can already see these diaphanous dresses being a big hit at the Hamptons next summer, can’t you?” she boomed in her imperious way.

As Mrs. Vreeland led the group to the next display, she spotted Annie and, for a moment, a look of confusion crossed her face. But then she gave her a quick nod of the head.

It was time.

Annie pulled open the flaps. At first, nothing happened, so she gave the box a little shake. In a rush, a cloud of small, winged insects flew out of the box and up into the air. It occurred to her that she had no idea how she’d get the butterflies back in the box. Of course Mrs. Vreeland didn’t concern herself with such logistics; that was Annie’s job. She’d figure something out.

Annie looked up, expecting to see a mass of orange wings—a “dizzying kaleidoscope of shape, pattern, and color,” as Mrs. Vreeland had explained when she’d first come up with the idea.

But something was off. These butterflies were small and dark. There were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.

They swarmed the hot spotlights and flitted recklessly around the heads of the guests, who swatted at them and cried out in shock.

“Oh my God!” Marta’s voice came out strangled. “It’s moths! An invasion of moths!”

Annie stared, her mouth open, at the ugly little monsters she’d just set free, as mayhem broke all around her.

“Where did they come from?” cried the director of the museum.

Mrs. Vreeland smashed one between her two hands and glared in Annie’s direction.

There must’ve been some kind of mix-up. But Annie had been perfectly clear with the person at the Museum of Natural History. Butterflies. Not moths. Who would want a box of moths? How could they have made such a terrible mistake? Annie checked the box. It was the same one she’d picked up, the word “Butterflies” clearly printed on the side.

“The clothes!”

Mrs. Vreeland was pointing at one of the more fragile costumes, a silk number, that a couple of moths had already descended upon. The piece had been carefully stored for decades, only to be in danger of being destroyed in minutes because of Annie’s mistake.

She ran to the mannequin, trying to flick them away, but the insects easily dodged her efforts. All around her they were spreading throughout the room like a plague.

Annie had to find help.

She ran to the basement hallway, yelling for security, for anyone, but got no answer. The technicians and conservators who might normally be working late stayed as far away from the building as possible during the Party of the Year.

Tears of frustration and fear pricked her eyes. She’d be fired, certainly, for this mishap. Annie would be just like the former assistant Wanda, running for the door after being publicly axed.

But for far greater a mistake.