Playing to Win

by Laura Carter

  I pull away from Brooks’s hold and run my fingers through his hair. “Thank you, Brooks Adams. For the first time in my life, you have made me want to work on me, for me. I can’t really explain that, except to say, thank you. You’ve done more for me in two weeks than most people have done in my life. You’ve made me want to figure out who I am.”

  “I love you, Izzy.”

  Tears build quickly and fall from my eyes. “I love you too.”

  He kisses me, long and slow. I grip his shirt, never wanting to let him go. Knowing I need to. When we separate, we’re both crying silent tears. I run my thumb under his eye, wanting to be here every time he breaks, every time he needs someone to hold him and kiss him.

  He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Go. You don’t want to miss your flight.”

  I watch him walk back to the building, until the door closes and he disappears.

  Sitting in the Cadillac, my mother says the last words I want to hear. “It’s for the best, Isabella.”

  I cry all the way to JFK, endless tears that refuse to turn off.

  * * * *

  Day 2 without him.

  There’s a gentle tap on my bedroom door. “It’s me,” Anna says, coming into my room uninvited.

  I roll over in bed. “Have a good day at work.” I roll back to face the window.

  She moves around the bed, picking up used tissues from the floor and putting them in my wastebasket. “I’m not at work today. I worked last weekend. Let’s do something. I could call Zara and Beatrice and we could go to afternoon tea? One of those healthy ones you like?”

  “No, thank you. I’m happy here.”

  “You’ve been in bed for a day and a half. You smell. This room smells. You’ve hardly eaten and you need to stop crying.”

  “I was watching a sad movie.”

  “Of course you were. Didn’t you say you had some event tonight?”

  “What day is it?”

  “Friday.”

  “I have a signing at Waterstones at six p.m.”

  “Right. Let’s pick something to wear, then. Up you get.”

  I pull myself up. Not because I want to but because she has just reminded me I have a signing and, unfortunately, I do have to go. Anna moves to my wardrobe and picks out dresses on hangers. “This? What about this Gucci? I adore this Tom Ford.”

  God, it’s no wonder I can’t afford to rent my own place. My wardrobe could be a down payment on a mansion.

  Dressed in a day-to-evening Dolce & Gabbana dress, which Anna has teamed with my latest Mulberry bag and Prada shoes, I agree to a late lunch with Anna, Zara, and Beatrice. Only because I have to eat something before going to Waterstones.

  We sit around a marble-top table in one of London’s finest hotels and order green salads and water. I hear Brooks as I eat. “If you eat like a rabbit, of course you’ll be skinny.”

  I laugh through a mouthful of water. The daggers I receive from Zara, Beatrice, and Anna tell me it must have been an inappropriate time to laugh. I cough until my amusement subsides. “Sorry, it went down the wrong way.”

  After tutting, Beatrice resumes whatever she was saying. “He said he couldn’t be with her anymore if she was going to be friends with Tillie, because of course Tillie had been seeing—and by seeing I mean having sex with—Alfie. Then Tillie said she was pregnant, which was a lie, and she admitted it minutes later, apparently. So, he said, even if she hadn’t been with Alfie…”

  I zone out again, until I hear my name. “Well done with the book thing, Izzy,” Zara says. I’m about to thank her when she continues. “I mean, at least you showed willing to do something. Now you can relax for a while.”

  “Sorry, how do you mean?”

  “You know, stop pretending you want to make your own way. You can get back to shopping. Plus, you can start coming out with us again, if you would like.”

  “Wow, incredible.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You’re a friend. You know you are welcome. We only didn’t invite you those other times because you were taking the exercise thing so seriously, and what with not drinking, you were a waste of a good invitation.”

  “Actually,” Beatrice jumps in, “about that book. I told Audrey about it and she was quite excited that we have an author friend. She was going to buy the book but I said you would obviously give me copies, so if you could drop some in to me, that would be grand. Maybe five or ten copies would be okay. I don’t know many people who will want it, but a few spares are always handy. It’s nice to give people something to take away when they visit.”

  I glance at Anna, expecting her to be as incensed by the conversation as I am. She sips her water and crunches through raw carrot, not concerned in the least.

  “Sure, Beatrice. I’ll sort that for you. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not feeling too well. I think I could use a walk before the signing.” I take my purse from my bag and find fifty pound for my overpriced salad and water, leaving it on the table beside Anna.

  “Izzy, I have Daddy’s card.”

  “Mmm, I know. I want to pay my way.”

  I walk toward the river Thames and saunter along the shoreline. Even when my toes begin to hurt in my high heels and I wish I had my running shoes on, I keep walking, feeling the cool wind in my hair.

  I won’t be like them. I’m not like them.

  I resolve on the way to Waterstones to start making my own way in life, for real.

  Despite being told that my book has sold ten thousand copies already, I sign five books at Waterstones, which were sold to three people. As I sit alone, drumming my fingers on the tabletop, at a store just minutes from home and my “friends” and family, I know no one else will come. Not one other person I know would have phoned friends to get them to come and buy my book just to make me feel less shitty about myself. Only Brooks.

  Chapter 30

  Brooks

  Day 5 without her.

  The gym is boring without her. Life is quiet when she isn’t around. I train. I train others. I do gym admin. I strum my guitar, wishing it was her fingers playing and her voice I was hearing, instead of my own.

  I want more. I need more. It’s time to do something new and challenge myself.

  I set my tuna steak and edamame beans aside—it’s lean protein and greens, I can’t be expected to be a kale convert after two weeks. Come on! Opening the lid of my laptop, I set it on the kitchen counter in front of me and find Drew’s e-mails about franchising.

  After an hour, I think I understand the basics—someone else owns the land, someone manages the gym, but it’s my style, my training regimes, and my brand they use. I make a note of things I need to ask Drew. How do I make sure the quality of the training is maintained? Who pays for equipment and the fit-out of the gym? Do I get to dictate which suppliers are used and how many members the gym has?

  I go to the fridge for a beer but when I reach inside, I decide to take a club soda instead. By the time I’m finished reading everything Drew sent me, it is after midnight and I am pooped.

  * * * *

  Week 2 without her.

  Stepping out of the elevator, the first thing I see is the new gold sign saying:

  WELCOME TO

  STATHAM HARRINGTON

  I’m so damn proud of my buddy for getting his name on the wall.

  “Hey, handsome. Admiring the art?”

  “Hey yourself,” I say, hugging Sarah.

  “I’ll take you through to the meeting room. Drew is just finishing up a call. Do you want coffee?”

  Following her impressively fast strut in sky-high heels, which ought to be considered an extreme sport, I tell her, “Actually, I’m not drinking so much caffeine.”

  She stops, dramatically—in true Sarah fashion—and spins to face me. Holding her hand to one side of her mouth, she whispers, “Don’t let the
attorneys hear you slander their best friend. Men have been killed for lesser things.”

  I’m still smiling at Sarah as I stand in the meeting room and take in the view of Manhattan’s skyline under the early morning sun.

  “Brooks, my man.” Marty comes into the room and shakes my hand. “I can’t stay. I’ve got a mock deposition in two minutes, I just wanted to say hi. Are you coming to poker at Drew’s on Saturday?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Great stuff, great stuff. All right, got to go. When I make him wait, my client is like you when you’re hungry.”

  “Shit, you better get going.”

  “I know, right?”

  As Marty leaves, Drew comes in. “Hey, buddy.” He shakes my hand and we take a seat at the glass table. “Do you want a bagel or pastry or something?”

  “No, man, I’m good.”

  “You’re turning down food? Sarah says you don’t want coffee, either. What the fuck?”

  “Since you made me buy this suit and it’s like two inches too small, I can’t afford to eat pastries.”

  “The suit is the perfect cut, Brooks. You’re just used to elastic waistbands. Right, let’s get down to it.”

  “I’m ready. I’m in. Let’s franchise.”

  Drew smiles as he sips his take-out coffee. We talk through everything I think I understand. Drew fills in some blanks and answers my questions.

  “What happens next?” I ask.

  “We look for a property. I can get someone from Real Estate to help with that. They know good commercial Realtors. Unless you have an idea already?”

  “Not on the property front. I do have an idea for a manager, though. Do you remember Mickey and Brad, the brothers who bought my first gym in Brooklyn? Well, they did a good job of it. I’d like to float the idea by them.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, are they commercial enough?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “But they managed to keep that gym afloat. They’ve never expanded it, but I know the membership is at capacity. They are capable of doing it and, more to the point, I trust them. Let’s give them a chance.”

  He nods slowly, as if he’s contemplating. “They’re good guys?”

  “Yeah, they’re solid.”

  “Your call, then. Speak to them.”

  We end the meeting with a plan of action in place. It feels pretty damn good to be taking an extra step, pushing myself. More than anything, it feels fucking phenomenal to know that I’m doing it for me.

  Drew shakes my hand and I pull him into a man hug. “Thanks, Drew, for pushing this. I had to work through some stuff, but I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t been nagging me like an old wife.”

  He thumps my back harder than necessary but laughs. “I’m glad you’re getting through your shit, Brooks.”

  * * * *

  After thirty minutes of interval training on the treadmill, I hit Stop and roll back with the belt until I’m standing on the gym floor. I smile at the thought of Izzy’s jelly legs the day I added on to her training because she’d pissed me off again. As I rub sweat from my face with a towel, I wonder where she is, who she’s with, what she’s doing. I contemplate sending her a message. Maybe telling her about the plans for the new gym.

  The walk from the gym to the showers gives me time to think better of the idea.

  When I’m back in my office, I have a missed call from Cady. I call her back.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey, baby. Did you call?”

  “Yeah. I, ah, I’m sorry but we need to talk about me moving into NYU. I don’t know who wants to drop me off, you or Mom. I mean, I would like it to be you and, you know, you could lift stuff better than Mom and Richard. But Mom wants to be there too. She’ll probably cry or something, I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t know what you want me to tell her?”

  I suck in a breath and exhale heavily down the line. “You don’t need to be in the middle of this, Cady. I’ll speak to Alice.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course. What are you doing this weekend? Will you both be home on Sunday morning?”

  “Ah, yeah, I’ll check but I think so. Will you…are you saying you’ll come here?”

  I scratch my head, not sure at all, but there is no time like the present for conquering shit you don’t want to conquer. “I’m sure. Let me know what time.”

  A text message comes through to my cell a few minutes after we hang up.

  MOM SAYS 10AM AND SHE WILL MAKE BREAKFAST. K?

  Breakfast with Alice. Well, fuck.

  SOUNDS GOOD.

  Chapter 31

  izzy

  “Your technique is flawless, Izzy. I don’t think it will take long for you to feel confident about auditioning for theatre, especially if you keep dancing every day.”

  I can’t hide my happiness as my dance teacher speaks. “Thanks, Francesca. I’m really enjoying getting back into it. It feels like forever since I had to concentrate on the mechanics of it all. I’m having so much fun.”

  “I can spread the word, if you like, see if anyone is auditioning? It wouldn’t necessarily be in London but if you don’t mind travel, I think we can find a theatre company.”

  “I would love that, thanks so much.”

  We leave the dance studio in London’s West End and head off in different directions. I walk west, back toward my apartment, excited about the stop I am making on the way.

  I reach Sam’s music store just before he closes for the day. It’s a small place in Notting Hill. Old green wood is marked quite simply with “SAM’S” above the entrance. The window is lined with sheet music, everything from the Beatles to Faith Hill.

  A bell rings as I enter. “Sam?” He’s nowhere to be seen, which I have come to realize means he is probably drinking tea with three sugars out back.

  He totters in, hunched from age in his old cricket jumper. “Izzy. She’s ready for you.”

  I clap excitedly and do a little jig on the spot. Sam lifts my new six-string acoustic from its leather travel case behind the counter. “I’ve been calling her Betty, after my late wife,” Sam says. “I think it suits her. Especially with that floral shoulder strap you had me put on.”

  I take hold of the guitar, pull the strap over my shoulder, and strum. “She sounds perfect, Sam. Betty, huh? I like it.”

  I carry Betty in her case back to my apartment and up to my bedroom. I take another look inside my wardrobe and a thrill runs through me. At a guess, I would say 70 percent of my designer labels are currently being sold online.

  I sit down on the bed with Betty and a notepad and pencil. I write a song about a lost love. I call it “Betty.” I sing the words:

  NO ONE WILL EVER REPLACE YOU, MY LOVE.

  I FOUND IN YOU SOMETHING THAT WILL STAY WITH ME FOR A LIFTIME.

  But I don’t see Sam’s late wife in my mind. I see one man. The man. I see Brooks.

  As I’m playing “Betty” for the tenth time, or maybe more, Anna comes into my room. She looks at the almost empty wardrobe then at me.

  “I still can’t believe you’re selling your clothes. What is even scarier is that you’ve cut up your credit cards. And what is scarier still is that you seem happy about all this.”

  I laugh and shrug. “I’m twenty-eight, Anna. It’s about time I started standing on my own two feet.”

  “This isn’t like the time you went vegan, is it? Because if you change your mind in three weeks, you can’t just get the clothes back.”

  “No, Anna, it’s not like that. Oh, hey, hold Betty.” I hand over the guitar as I move around to the other side of my bed.

  “Betty?” I ignore Anna’s question.

  “There is one thing I decided not to sell.” I take out my latest Mulberry, the one Anna desperately wanted when I bought the last one in the store, and hand it to her
. “It’s yours. For putting up with my tears.”

  Her eyes fill and I hold her to me, smiling. I cried over losing the love of my life. She cries over being given a Mulberry. I see how ridiculous I must have seemed to Brooks when we first met.

  “All right, all right.” She pulls back and wipes the mascara shadows from under her eyes. “What are you wearing to Marybella and Edward’s engagement party tonight?”

  “Urgh.”

  “Izzy, stop. You said you would come. They are big family friends and you’re shocking Mummy enough at the moment without refusing to go tonight.”

  “Fine. I don’t know. I kept a few dresses. Can I wear black in honor of the inevitable divorce?”

  “What a thing to say! Why would they get divorced?”

  “Because she craves attention and money and he craves other women and money.”

  “Ergo, they have a lot in common.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “True.”

  * * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Rochester

  Welcome you to celebrate the

  Engagement

  Of

  Marybella Elizabeth Charlotte Rochester

  And

  Edward Harold George Wellington-Purrell

  I stare at the gold-embossed sign at the entrance to the Rochesters’ ten-bedroom home in Mortlake, one of the wealthiest suburbs of London. Anna and I went to school with Marybella. Mrs. Rochester, or Victoria, is one of the leading LOLs—ladies of leisure—in my mother’s clan.

  I can imagine Brooks reading the sign and saying something like, Who needs all those names? You only use one. I curl my fingers against my clutch—gold, like my shoes, because Anna said I had to add some color to the black dress. I feel my mobile through the material of my bag and wonder whether I should call Brooks, or just text him. See how he’s doing. See what he’s doing.

  “Isabella, come on, darling.”

  My mother calls from the top of the steps leading to the Rochesters’ home, her arm linked through my father’s. She’s in a silver- and blue-sequined dress, he in black tie. Anna has already found a friend and gone inside. I’m quite pleased; her fuchsia dress was beginning to hurt my eyes.