“I’m good with water.” I smiled and sat down.
“Stan, lunchtime!” Cathy hollered.
Cathy and Stan Paulson were the first people I met when I relocated to New York City eighteen years ago. They owned the very crappy building I moved into and they took pity on me, thank God. If not for their generosity in allowing my rent to be late and, on a few occasions, go unpaid altogether, I’m not sure I would have survived. Every week Cathy would show up at my shithole of a studio with a tray of lasagna or a few weeks’ supply of toilet paper. She’d swear she overcooked or overbought, but I knew that wasn’t the case.
Just three years before I’d arrived on their doorstep, Cathy and Stan had lost their daughter—who was exactly my age—to a treacherous, lifelong battle with leukemia. And apparently I reminded them of her, which worked out well for both of us. I needed them in the same way they needed me.
Cathy and Stan are the only people in my new life who know who I really am and the price that I’d pay if my true identity was revealed. They know that I’ve lied to my husband about everything, including the fact that Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge has been making money since the first year it opened. If John knew that, then I wouldn’t be able to save my funds for a rainy day. They also know that he’s been threatening to shut down my company because he feels it distracts me from being as dutiful a wife as he deserves, which Cathy believes is one of the reasons John cheats. Whereas I think that’s because he’s an insecure asshole.
Either way, it’s paramount that John remains in the dark about my past. And that the Doonan-Blunt wedding is executed to the level of perfection that Caroline Doonan expects. If it’s not, John will put his foot down once and for all and I’ll either have to confess, or my little cash cow will be all out of milk.
Cathy and Stan have guarded my secrets for nearly two decades. And for that I adore them.
“Well, I’m glad you could make it today. It’s been a while,” Cathy reprimanded in her gentle way.
“I know. I’ve been so busy with work.” I opened the lid of my salad and scrunched my nose at the wilted slices of yellow pepper. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay long, either. I have a major client coming in this afternoon and I hired a new assistant. It’s her first day.”
“The Doonans?” Cathy tucked a strand of her kinky brown hair behind her ear and sat down across from me with her cup of tea. She’s one of those 1970s hippies who never graduated to the next century. Long bohemian skirt, chunky beaded necklace, no bra, and unshaven legs and armpits. She doesn’t believe in deodorant, either. She says it’s toxic, like rich people, even though she and Stan both have successful careers and, as a result, plenty of expendable income.
“Yes.”
“Must be interesting.”
“Eh. They’re all alike.”
“Yeah, but from an analytical perspective.” In addition to being my old landlord, Cathy is also a family counselor. “Don’t you ever wonder how people like that look at themselves in the mirror?”
“Of course.”
“And yet you continue to immerse yourself in it.” She lifted a forkful of salad to her mouth. “Though I guess there are some perks.” She motioned to my Birkin bag. One of many.
“You know it’s not as glamorous as it appears.”
Don’t get me wrong, I know how fortunate I am. But I slogged and hustled to get here. It took a unique brand of dedication to call the vast space I live in, with its white oak floors, milled baseboards, and trimless lighting, my home. I adore all four thousand rambling square feet of it—from the broad rectangular foyer bordered with inlayed wooden shelves to the meticulously landscaped wraparound terrace overlooking Park Avenue. I love the eat-in chef’s kitchen with its glass-front professional refrigerator, imposing Calacatta marble island, and one-hundred-and-fifty-bottle-capacity wine cooler. And the four-poster bed sheathed in Charlotte Thomas bespoke sheets woven with the finest Egyptian cotton. There’s actually twenty-two-karat gold laced into the fabric!
Do I require this level of wealth? No. But I’m not complaining now that I have it.
“Maybe.” Cathy arched an overgrown eyebrow. She thinks it’s insane that women inflict pain on themselves to achieve aesthetic perfection. She also wears clothing from thrift shops, even though she can afford to shop at Bergdorf Goodman.
“Cathy.”
“What?”
“You know I’m not really one of them.”
“Sure, sure.” She leaned back in her chair. “Stan!”
“What’s all the shouting about? I’m right here.” Stan appeared in white tennis shorts and a blue golf shirt. He beamed at me, and I beamed right back. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real father. “Look at this beautiful girl.” I stood up, and he pulled me into a warm embrace. “You’re even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you, if that’s possible.”
“Such a charmer.” I laughed and sat back down. Stan sat next to me and rested his hand on my knee.
Cathy rolled her eyes. “You think he says those things to me?” She and Stan have been together so long, they finish each other’s sentences. And they’re always bickering, but there’s never any malice behind it.
“Did I not bring you flowers the other day?”
“Yes you did.”
“See, I am a good husband.”
“You’re a gem,” Cathy said, placating him. “Speaking of which, how’s that husband of yours?” Cathy and Stan have never actually met John. For obvious reasons.
“He’s fine.”
“Still fucking anything with a vagina?”
“Jesus, Cathy.” Stan moved his hand to my back. “Can we table the vagina talk until after lunch?”
“Those were her exact words, last time I saw her.”
“They were,” I acknowledged. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about John’s roaming penis.
Cathy’s well aware that, while I have no intention of staying with John forever, his extracurricular activities curdle my insides. If only because I don’t like to play second fiddle. She knows silver medals don’t wear well on me. But it’s worth it. He doesn’t have to be attentive or faithful, as long as he veils his indiscretions and pads our bank account. I don’t even need him to love me. I tell myself it’s easier that way. I try to view it as survival of the fittest. Charles Darwin, eat your heart out. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to end up like my mother. To be trodden under the thumb of a man. That’s why I have a career. A girl needs a backup plan in the form of her own savings. It affords me autonomy, regardless of what I have now. Because I know all too well how things can change in an instant, especially when there’s an ironclad prenup in place.
I’d prefer not to focus on that, though. Besides, I have plenty to think about: three big weddings and a new assistant.
“I don’t know how you do it.” Cathy shook her head.
“Do what?”
“Pretend to be someone you’re not. It must be exhausting.”
“She doesn’t have to pretend when she’s with us.” Stan said, pointing out the obvious. “She’s perfect just the way she is.”
“Thank you, Stan.” I gave his arm a squeeze. “Wow, have you been working out again?”
“It’s all the tennis.” He smiled proudly. “I keep encouraging Cathy to get out there with me—”
“But I have two left feet,” Cathy finished for him.
“So she says.” He shrugged.
“And I’m not wearing—”
“One of those ridiculous skirts. I know.” Stan rolled his eyes.
“So tell me about your new assistant. Is she fancy too?” Cathy changed the subject.
“Actually, no, she’s not. Although I think she’s trying to be, which is good.” I picked up a piece of cucumber, noticed the browning around the edge, and dropped it back into the salad. Cathy stared at me in silent judgment.
“But you like her?”
“Today is only her first day. She seems great so far. I feel very op
timistic for the first time in a while.”
“I like to hear that.” Cathy smiled.
“Me too.” Stan spoke around a mouthful of lettuce.
“We don’t need to see everything you’re eating,” Cathy scolded.
“She kind of fell into my lap.” I checked my watch. Somehow, I only had twenty-five minutes to get across town and nineteen blocks south. “It may be too good to be true.”
“In my experience, if it seems that way, it usually is,” Cathy said. I thought about her words, and then stood up, leaving my salad and glass of tap water intact. “But we’ll hope for the best. Your instincts have always been on point, which is one of the things I love most about you.”
Cathy stood too and opened her arms wide to hug me. Then Stan did the same.
“I learned from the best.” I reached for my purse and looped it around my wrist.
“I can’t believe you have to leave already.” Stan held me at arm’s length. “Promise you won’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t. I’m so sorry. When we made the plans, I had no idea that I’d have such a small window. But I didn’t want to cancel on you.”
“Again, you mean?” Cathy feigned insult.
“Yes, again. I’m the worst.”
“Never the worst, but we were beginning to think you’d forgotten about us altogether,” Stan added.
“Impossible.”
“Lunch next week?” Cathy asked.
“You’ve got it.”
“You bring the food.” Cathy motioned to my untouched salad. “Then maybe you’ll eat something. You’re too skinny.” We walked toward their front door, and Stan opened it to see me off.
“Tell that pompous husband of yours he better treat you well or he’ll have to answer to me,” he said.
I laughed. “I would, if only he knew you existed.”
“We love you,” Cathy called as I walked down the hallway toward the elevator.
“I love you guys too,” I called back.
It’s been too long since I said that to someone.
Or since someone said it to me.
12 KERRIE
“William, how delightful to finally meet you!” Jordana gushed, as she steered Tatiana and her fiancé into the studio.
One of the many things my old boss Nancy impressed on me is that clients can be a lot like children. You have to smile wide at them even if your car’s been stolen and your credit card bills are overdue. You have to raise your voice an octave too high even though your instinct is to discharge a guttural sob. And you never—no matter the circumstance—lose your cool. The customer is always right. Even when they’re wrong.
“I’d like to introduce both of you to the newest member of my team, Olivia. She just started today, but I’ve brought her up to speed on everything and she’s as committed as I am to making your special day spectacular.” Jordana looked to me for confirmation.
“It’s very nice to meet you.” I nodded and extended my arm dutifully. William took my hand. Tatiana smiled halfheartedly. “I’m so excited to work with you. Consider me your faithful servant.”
“Faithful servant, huh?” William shook his head and laughed at the same time. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those before.”
“I guess it’s your lucky day, then.” I’m ashamed to admit that I blushed. Physically, William is exactly what you’d expect. He’s handsome like a pure-bred German shepherd—tall and slender, with thick black hair that’s greased and groomed. His eyes are dark but welcoming. His teeth are gleaming. And his navy suit appears to have cost at least my month’s rent, probably double. What I didn’t count on was his affable nature.
“You said the dress arrived early?” Tatiana toyed with a blinding diamond T necklace that dipped into her cleavage. “I hope it fits.”
“Sweetie, relax.” William stroked her back. “It’ll be fine.”
“I can’t relax. This isn’t any old dress. It’s my wedding gown. It’s probably the most important piece of clothing I’ll ever wear. In my entire life. It can’t be fine. It has to be perfect.”
“It will be. Don’t worry,” William said, attempting to alleviate her anxiety again.
“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have my mother breathing down your neck.”
“Can I offer anyone a glass of champagne?” Jordana interjected.
“I’d love one, thank you,” William accepted.
“No thank you,” Tatiana declined.
“I’ll go get the dress and the champagne,” I offered, and slipped into the back room. When I returned, William was seated alone on our white linen sofa, waiting patiently for the big reveal. Apparently, Tatiana isn’t superstitious.
“They’re in the dressing room.” He motioned to his left, and I handed him his glass.
“Here it is!” I called out, as Jordana reached around the side of the black velvet curtain. I gave her the garment bag. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with myself, so I walked back over to the filing cabinet I’d been organizing before they arrived and kept quiet. Do not speak unless spoken to. Jordana was very clear about that, and I’m prepared to listen to every directive she sets forth. I need to keep this job. And I need her to trust me. Trust is essential in order to achieve sabotage.
“So what were you doing before this?” It took me a second to realize William was talking to me.
“What’s that?” I teetered on my heels and nearly lost my balance.
“Jordana said this is your first day.”
“Yes, right. It is.” I fidgeted with one of the folders labeled LUCY NOBLE DRESS SKETCHES. “I just moved to New York City.”
“From where?”
“Florida.”
William is much cuter in person than he was in the photos I found online. I had to do some more research before meeting the Doonans firsthand. In fact, I did quite a bit of investigating into Jordana and her husband, John, too. I wanted to gather as much information about everyone as I could. After all, as Thomas Jefferson said, knowledge is power.
Obviously, I already knew a few things about Jordan Butler—where she grew up, what she did that night, and how she robbed us, but nothing more. An initial internet search revealed a house tour on ELLE Decor that featured Jordana’s amazing apartment on Park Avenue, which is over three times as big as the home I grew up in. It said they gutted the interior when they first purchased it. Their architect and designer both called the style “enriched minimalism,” whatever that means. You can tell from the photos that everything they own is classy, and the visual world they live in is unflawed, right down to the all-white, spotless living room. I’m guessing they don’t eat on their couch. I’m also guessing their couch is not from Pottery Barn or Crate&Barrel.
The pictures showed Jordana smiling demurely on her wraparound terrace, with John’s arm curled around her waist. The caption called him a hot-shot financier and said that he’s a managing director at A. Doonan, LLC, Arthur Doonan’s global investment firm, which Jordana had already told me. Still, it was proof in print that they’re super wealthy, as if that wasn’t apparent from the images alone. The writer waited until the final paragraph to mention Jordana’s eponymous bridal concierge service.
Of course they were not shy about repeating that Jordana and John are expected guests at all of the city’s “see and be seen” events, where I can only assume that socialites shovel caviar and slurp scotch to benefit the poverty-stricken. I’ve never tasted caviar, but it sounds repulsive. Fish eggs?! Really?
Caviar or not, the bottom line is that Jordana has been living out every small-town girl’s fantasy of opulence and success.
It’s hard not to be enamored by the glamour, even though jealousy is tearing me apart inside.
Unfortunately, there were no similar profiles of Tatiana and William as a couple. There were a number of clips announcing their engagement. A Royal Fairytale! Seeing Green for a White Wedding! (the S was a dollar sign). And I did happen upon a short, professional bio of Willia
m, who works for a prominent hedge fund. There was also a lot of information on Tatiana’s parents. Honestly, there were so many photos of all of them in gowns and tuxedos, fondling champagne glasses, that my vision started to blur.
“Where about in Florida?” I closed the drawer to the filing cabinet and walked back over to where William was sitting. I didn’t want to come off as rude.
“Palm Beach.” I kept my voice low, since Jordana was only paces away behind the curtain with Tatiana. I wasn’t sure if she’d approve of me chatting with William.
“I love Palm Beach. My mom and dad used to have a place there.”
“That’s nice.” I was practically whispering, which was a little awkward.
“Yeah, I used to go down there all the time when I was a kid. We had to sell it when my mom passed away. My father was too distraught to go back. And it was too much for me and my brother to take care of.”
“I’m so sorry about your mother.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s definitely not easy losing a parent.”
“I know.” I nodded.
“Your mom too?”
“My mom and dad.” I was too preoccupied with saying the right thing to remember to lie.
“Wow, that’s rough. Well, then I’m sorry for your losses.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“ARE YOU READY?” Tatiana projected from the dressing room, even though we were in close range.
“As I’ll ever be.” William hid an impish smile.
She threw back the curtain. “What do you think? I’m not sure I like it.” I spotted Jordana, off to the side, digging her fingernails into her forearm.
Pretty Revenge Page 6
