Page 1 of Ticket to You

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OPHELIA

Ten years ago,when I was deciding what to wear to senior prom, my grandma drove me to Oklahoma City to the nearest Macy's and we prayed for a good clearance sale. I had saved every penny religiously since I got my first job on my fourteenth birthday. Even so, I refused to take more than fifty dollars from my "For New York" shoebox, its contents too precious to squander on a one-night event. My dress search was in vain, and we resorted to the familiar Rags and Tags thrift store in my podunk town.

I don’t have that problem anymore.

I lay out three designer dresses across my bed. Two still have their tags on. They’re a small selection from my overstuffed closet. I'm still a penny-pincher at heart, but these dresses—and the dozens more I have like them—are courtesies of being a fashion journalist forAtelier Today Magazinewhere designers do anything they can to get me to do a feature on them.

“What about the champagne one?” I ask Gemma, holding the first dress up and letting it swirl around me.

She purses her lips. “Too wedding-y. And the emerald one is too on the nose for a holiday party.”

I pick up the last dress, one that debuted at Dior’s show last summer. It hits right above my ankle, just high enough to show off a nice pair of Chanel heels. The dress’ baby pink fabric is dotted with groups of intricate red and white beads as if the dress is blooming in thousands of tiny flowers.

Holding the dress up in the mirror, I tilt my head to the side. “Is it too much?”

Gemma gives me her motherly smile, the one she saves just for me. “Ophelia, it’s perfect. Everyone goes all out for Hoffman’s holiday parties.”

Gemma moved fromAteliertoOutdoorsylast month. Her old position at a fashion publication is a far cry from working on a magazine that has ads for bug repellent and protein bars. But thankfully, bothAtelier TodayandOutdoorsyare part of Hoffman Publishing, so Gemma and I can still share a coffee before work every morning and go to company events together.

I give my curls one last coat of hairspray while Gemma smooths out her silver-streaked bob, a style she swears Diane Keaton stole from her a decade ago. After I step into my dress, Gemma zips it up for me. Her hands linger on my shoulders for a moment, a mothering touch.

I secure my grandpa’s watch onto my wrist. It has a faux gold face and brown leather strap that is worn in two places—the hole where he fastened it, and the hole where I do. It’s old, the glass is scratched, and it doesn’t match my outfit in the slightest. But I don’t care. I need its luck tonight.

Gemma catches my eye in the mirror, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen with a smile. “How are you feeling about pitching your travel section idea toJane Sommerland?” She says those last four syllables as if they alone could be a horror story, which makes sense.

Jane is far more bone chilling than any Stephen King character. her reputation asAtelier Today’s unforgiving editor-in-chief is enough to make anyone at Hoffman’s tremble. Even though I started as her assistant six years ago before I got my writing gig, she still intimidates me to no end.

I take in a heavy breath. “I’ve wanted a travel section atAtelierforyears,and now I finally have the chance to make that a reality. How do you think I feel?”

“Not nearly as confident as you should. Maybe she wants to talk to you tonight so the other executives can see how put together her journalists are.”

“I think it would be more likely that she’s doing some kind of test to see if I can hold my own in front of the big wigs. Or maybe she wants me to fail for entertainment’s sake, like some kind of jester in front of Hoffman’s royalty.”

“I know your career is the most important thing to you—”

“More accurately, paying bills is slightly higher on my priority list.”

Gemma smiles grimly and nods. “But try not to be nervous in front of Jane.” She inspects her manicure, trying to hide a mischievous smile. “Besides, a party like this is the perfect opportunity to meet a special someone.”

“Of course you’re thinking about love at a time like this,” I say with an eye roll. “Keep dreaming.”

“You know I will.”

We walk outside over the thin, white blanket of snow. A puff of frozen mist flows from Gemma’s mouth, and the streetlight above us illuminates the drifting flakes. The snow lands on Gemma’s hair like a dusting of powdered sugar and melts against her tawny skin. Her sleek, bronze gown shimmers brilliantly as she hails the cab. She may have left the fashion industry, but at least Outdoorsy hasn’t stripped her sense of style. Gemma, at fifty-two, will be older than many of the employees that will be at the party tonight. Still, I know she will outshine them all.

The drive to Central Park is quick, but it’s only the beginning of our icy trek. We check in at theHoffman’s Holiday Soireesign and are directed to a horse-drawn carriage. It’s not high off the ground, but when the coachman offers to take my hand to help me up the rickety steps, my hand trembles a bit. Even a few feet off the ground, my fear of heights is relentless. Thankfully, as soon as Gemma sits next to me, I feel at ease and can appreciate the magic of the moment.

Gemma and I are smitten by the carriage ride, her because she’s the world’s biggest romantic and this is something straight out of a fairytale, and me because I’m in love with nearly everything in this city, including the Central Park clichés.

There’s a long line of carriages moving between the park entrance and the historic Loeb Boathouse restaurant, our venue for the night. Through the branches of the barren, frosted trees, the skyscrapers’ lights are on brilliant display like thousands of twinkling stars.

Not even my nerves about meeting with Jane can stop the grin from stretching across my frozen cheeks when the Boathouse comes into view. It’s my favorite place in the city and is even more beautiful in winter when the frost makes every window appear diamond-etched. We step down from the carriage and follow the sounds of laughter and music to the party. Overflowing florals, flickering candles, and many familiar faces fill the Boathouse. My frozen fingers tingle, the warm room coaxing life back into them.

Most of the restaurant’s tables have been moved out to accommodate the hundreds of people dressed in their finest formal attire. Women adorned themselves in elaborate gowns. Men dressed as if they’re a part of the city’s elite—some of whom, I suppose, actually are. The lights are low and candlelit, and the room is richly decorated with tasteful garlands and sprigs of holly and mistletoe.

The room smells of the holidays: cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, clove, and expensive perfume. A symphony of polite conversation and laughter pulses throughout the party, and the extrovert in me wants to squeal.

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