The Penitent Magdalene
Friday night, a company Town Car came to my apartment to pick me up. Somewhat to my surprise, they drove me down the 405 to the Getty Center, as I had requested. I had half expected a quick trip to an abandoned building for a fun execution-style bullet to the back of the head.
My failures were still secret, it seemed. Or possibly the Senior Partners were just toying with me. Either way it was going to be an interesting evening.
I checked my makeup, got out of the car, adjusted the pitch-black satin of my full-length skirt, and walked into the party with my head held high.
((Open to anyone, but especially Wes))
In the huge white-and-blonde wood space, the entire black-clad staff of Wolfram and Hart mingled, their chatter rising and falling. The winter solstice party (a few weeks late... we'd had a casual sacrifice on the actual day, which I had missed due to a conference call) was our largest, most elegant affair of the year. And we all had to wear black, lest anyone say we didn't do the whole evil attorney thing in style.
I hated it. Not so much because of the sword of Damocles over my head... I'm used to that. I loathed that I was one of the best-dressed people in the room and nobody could tell how fabulous my gown was (a Vera Wang... great for us tall girls) because frankly couture black and JC Penney black look really damn similar if you keep it simple.
My stole was taken, a glass of champagne pressed into my gloved hand. I glimpsed Lindsey across the room and raised a toast to him when our eyes met. Holland Manners bore down upon me. He kissed both my cheeks, and said, "So glad you could make it, Lilah." As if I'd had a choice.
"Evening, Holland. What a lovely party! You did a fabulous job."
"Delegation, Lilah," he said, "I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to set all this up, but I have good people under me. On that subject, I wanted to ask you... how's your new boy coming along... Spike, I think he was?"
"Fine, sir," I said, trying not to sweat. The bastard knew! Or maybe not! Fucking hell.
"Do you have a few minutes to give me an upda... oh, damn, excuse me, I need to take this. I'll catch up with you Monday." And like a miracle he took a slimline cell phone out of his inside coat pocket and turned off, talking in a low voice.
Not being stupid, I recognized a reprieve. I shotgunned the last of my champagne and went to the bar for a Scotch. And then I'm ashamed to admit that I... ran. Not literally, of course, not in that dress and those shoes. But I departed gracefully from the crowd and strolled through the empty rooms of the museum.
I sat on one of their Mies Van Der Rohe chairs and stared blankly at a Titian in front of me. Two days in which to come up with a good plan. Shit, I was dead. The painting was "The Penitent Magdalene", a minor work showing the whore who Jesus came along and saved. And I don't care what they say in "The Da Vinci Code", she was a whore. It's all a matter of what people believe about you, and if enough people say "whore", than you're stuck... even if you've lived a life of purest chastity.
Not that any of of the sins I was accused of weren't things I hadn't done.
Mary Magdalene got to be a saint. There wasn't enough penitence in the world to get me out of the life I led, let alone get me into heaven. Maybe someone would come along and save me, but I was too old enough to think it likely.