Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

  “These are the final styles for you to choose from.” Samantha spoke briskly as she placed the first of three small red-and-gold leather boxes on the desk and searched our faces for anticipation. Then she lifted the lid in slow motion and exhibited one of the rings as if it were the Holy Child. “This is from our LOVE collection. It’s among our most coveted designs. You’ll notice the oval shape and screw motif. Absolutely timeless. It comes in rose gold or yellow gold and with or without diamonds. We think the diamonds add that something special. That effervescence.”

  “Thank you.” William examined it closely before handing it back to Samantha, as he had the others. “I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve seen this on half my friends. And I’m not quite the effervescent type. No offense.”

  “No offense taken. It is extremely popular,” Samantha replied curtly. Quite obviously, offense had been taken. She deposited the second ring directly into William’s open palm. “This is the Trinity de Cartier. An undeniable classic. As you can see, it’s three intertwined bands—pink gold, yellow gold, and white gold. It was created by Louis Cartier in 1924. The pink represents love, the yellow is for fidelity, and the white denotes friendship. It’s also meant to signify both mystery and harmony. It’s iconic.” Who knew one ring could say so much?

  “It’s nice.” He didn’t try it on, which I could tell rankled Samantha. “But again, not really my taste. Do you have anything a bit plainer?”

  “Plainer?” Samantha emphasized the word as if William had just asked her to drop down on all fours and bark like a dog. Naked. In the middle of the store. During the holiday rush. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

  “Yes, maybe something gold. Not too thick.”

  “We have this last one. It’s simple, eighteen-karat pink gold, engraved with Cartier lettering, and inset with a .03 carat diamond. Very unassuming.” I looked down to conceal a mocking expression. Samantha wouldn’t know unassuming if it sat in her lap. “Is something funny?” She caught me and her eyes bulged like a tree frog’s.

  “No, not at all.” I bit my lip and shook my head at the same time.

  “What are you thinking?” William turned toward me.

  “Nothing, really. It’s fine.”

  “Seriously, tell me,” William insisted. “I want your opinion. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To help me.”

  “Okay.” I paused, and Samantha leered at me as she tugged on her elf-like ear with her thumb and forefinger. A reflexive twitch. She’s nervous about something. “I guess I was thinking that unassuming wouldn’t necessarily be the word I’d choose. You know, because it does say the name of the store on the top of the ring and there’s that diamond, which—don’t get me wrong—is sparkly and all . . .” Samantha cleared her throat deliberately. “You know what? I’m sure I have no idea what I’m talking about. Don’t listen to me. I’m not even married!”

  “Exactly.” Samantha nodded.

  “I agree with Olivia,” William said, ignoring her obvious irritation. “Are there any others we can see?”

  “Well”—Samantha starched her posture—“we do have a few more, however . . .”

  “However, what?” William challenged politely.

  “However, these are the ones we think are best suited for you.”

  “Right, only what I’m telling you is that these are obviously not the ones best suited for me. I don’t want any embellishments. At all.”

  “Why don’t you try them on?” she urged, desperation creeping into her voice. “Sometimes a piece of jewelry can look entirely different once you’re wearing it.”

  “Listen, Samantha,” William began, and I could see he was frustrated. If this had been Caroline, she’d have launched a full-fledged fit already. But William isn’t like that. He’s respectful, even when it isn’t warranted. “I don’t want to waste your time. And I’m sure you don’t want to waste mine.” He waited for her confirmation.

  But Samantha wasn’t willing to concede. “I promise if you’ll just give these a chance.” She inched the velvet mat toward him.

  “We’d really like to see the other varieties,” I interjected. “Please.” After all, it is my job to be the bride and groom’s advocate. And I can tell William is a good egg, even if he is a Richie Rich like the rest of them.

  “Of course. It’s our mission to make our customers happy. The thing is, again, we really feel that one of the ones you’ve already seen will work.”

  “Do you mind if I ask who we is?” I pressed. “I know Jordana was going to call in some suggestions, but I’m sure she’d want William to have whatever he’s comfortable with.”

  “Yes, I spoke to Jordana. Her recommendations were on point, as they always are. And you’re correct, she did say that they were only meant to guide William to a ring he loves.”

  “Then what’s the issue?”

  “Well,” Samantha started, pausing to find the right words. “William’s lovely mother-in-law-to-be was in earlier this week. She’s a valued longtime customer.” She hesitated again. “We spent quite some time going through each item, and she felt very strongly that one of the ones I’ve showed you would be best. I did present her with some that were a little plainer. But she eliminated those at first glance. She believes something ornamental would be more appropriate. Something that will make a proud statement.” Samantha’s lips spread into a thin red line. She’d outed Caroline and was petrified to say another word. I can’t say I blame her.

  “Ah, I see now. That makes sense.” William grimaced. “Samantha, I do understand your predicament here. And I’m sorry that you’ve been put in the middle of this. That said, I don’t want something that makes a statement. My statement is marrying Tatiana, not a piece of jewelry. So I’d say we have a couple of options here. One, you can find some other rings you think will suit my preferences. Or two, Olivia and I can thank you for your time and be on our way. Since I’m feeling generous today, I’m going to let you choose.” He smiled genuinely, after punting the proverbial ball into her court.

  “I, I’m . . .” Samantha stammered. “I don’t know what to say.” Caroline had tied her to a bedpost, and William was tightening the leash.

  “Then I think we have our answer. Right, Olivia?”

  “Yes, right.” He stood up, and I did the same.

  “Thank you for your time, Samantha.” He clasped her hand firmly.

  “Yes, thank you,” I parroted, wondering what the hell had just happened and whether Jordana was going to have my head.

  “Mr. Blunt . . . I . . . I’m so sorry. Are you sure one of these won’t work?”

  “Yes. And it’s quite okay—not your fault. We’ll just be going now.”

  “Bye.” I waved clumsily and followed William through the store and out onto the sidewalk.

  “Can you believe that?” He raked his fingers through his hair.

  “No,” I lied, but then thought better of it. It’s not William I’m deceiving. “Yes, actually, I can. I’m really sorry.”

  “This is exactly what I was talking about before. I can’t even pick my own damn wedding band.” He exhaled. “Well, I’m not going to let it ruin this spectacular night. I’m starving. You?”

  “Ravenous.”

  “What do you say we grab some pizza? I’ll take you to my favorite joint.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

  “Come on.”

  “What about Tatiana?”

  “She’s out with her girlfriends. They’re probably knee-deep in dirty martinis by now. Anyway, do you really think she eats pizza?” He cocked his head.

  “No?”

  “But you will?”

  “I will.”

  “Great!” William raised his arm to hail a taxi. “Let’s go before you change your mind.”

  16  JORDANA

  The words listen and silent share all the same letters. Olivia told me that the other day. Isn’t that fascinating? Two virtues that confound most everyone, especially those who roam the
hallways of privilege. There’s always so much to say. So much to prove. If you can’t stay a chin hair ahead of the competition, well then you might as well surrender to obscurity. You’re nobody if you’re not someone.

  Thus, here I am at this absurdly lavish gala, by my husband’s side—ever the obedient wife—nodding and smiling as a symphony of horns toot, toot, toot around the table. Why do I inhale this gold-plated bullshit? Because I have to. It’s part of the job of being a socialite. If you want to maintain a position of power, it’s crucial to make people think you give a fuck about them. It’s the same way I approach running my business. Does your rear end resemble Pippa Middleton’s? Absolutely. But better.

  I’ll tell you, though, it’s one thing to be naive enough to yearn for this life—to lie awake in bed at night and plot your ascent—as I did when I first fled to New York. And it’s another thing to live and breathe it every day the way I do now. I used to think that once I’d nosed my way in, things would be easier. I was wrong. It requires strength and perseverance, not to mention a coat of armor—like treading water in an ocean full of sharks. One false move and you’ll be eaten alive.

  To John’s left is Sefton Horowitz. He’s short, stout, stubbly, and—dare I say—vulgar. Excruciatingly vulgar. Oh, the delicacies I’m privy to about good old Sef and what he can accomplish with his tongue alone. Sefton is Jewish and his wife, Priscilla, was a WASP, until his parents gave her an ultimatum. No holy conversion, no holy matrimony. So now she flips potato latkes, stirs matzo ball soup, and eats gefilte fish to verify her commitment to the tribe. And then on Sundays she attends services at a Protestant church in Harlem while Sefton thinks she’s at the gym. I suppose she does bicep curls with her Bible.

  Next to Priscilla are Aerin and Preston Hendricks. They have five kids—all boys—who attend The Dalton School, a top-tier private school in Manhattan, where the elementary students fashion collages from scraps of fur and the freshman girls smoke pot before first period. Aerin and Preston are climbers. Surface scratchers. They’re so desperate to gain entrance into “the inner circle” that they’ll claw at the epidermis until they graze an organ. Poor Aerin will never look the part. She’s ten pounds shy of being twenty pounds overweight, with a tawny complexion and soggy brown eyes. She’s tried every diet from South Beach to Taiwan, but she loves to eat and hates to exercise, which renders her a plump little piggy. Unfortunately, it just so happens that, on the side, Preston is serving his tennis pro more than one ball. With a lot of Love-Love in between.

  The third couple at the table with us, to my right, are The Lelands. Alexandra and Claude. They’re a little older than the rest of the group, though you’d never know by their appearance. They have twin boys who are seniors at the esteemed Collegiate School. Connor will be at Yale come September. Rocco will be at Washington University in St. Louis, although they won’t willingly divulge that. Rocco’s rejection from Yale (also Brown, Columbia, University of Pennsylvania, and Dartmouth) orbited the social rumor mill in a shock wave, given that both his father and grandfather are Yale alums and still couldn’t get him in. Isn’t that about as invigorating as a lemon sorbet?

  “We’re renting a twelve-thousand-square-foot villa on the Amalfi coast this summer,” Alexandra said to me, as she flattened her palm to her chest to show off a diamond ring the size of my dinner roll. Guilt gift. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I conceded. “I’m jealous!” If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she’s having a second face-lift. What kinder way to recover than by sunning your black-and-blue marks on the Sorrentine Peninsula?

  “I knew you would be.” She clapped her hands together.

  “What about you? Are you and John doing anything special? Or just the usual—Aspen and Hamptons?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I have the Doonan wedding in June, so I’m trying to get through that.” John squeezed my thigh beneath the table. He doesn’t like when I talk about my job with the other wives.

  “Oh, that’s right! I always forget you’re a working girl.”

  At this, John cleared his throat and turned toward us. “Well, we’ll see how much longer that lasts,” he said more to Alexandra than to me. And then went back to his conversation with Sefton.

  These people wouldn’t know “working girl” if it dented the bumper of their Mercedes G-Wagen.

  “Clark is completely fluent in Cantonese,” I overheard Aerin say to Priscilla. “He’s only nine years old!”

  “Good for him,” Priscilla replied. “Can you believe my Lulu can sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ backward? Isn’t that a riot?”

  But it doesn’t stop there. After preschool, elementary, high school, and college, it’s law school or business school. Or a job. And then it’s what kind of job. For example, everyone knows that the girls who become teachers are just biding their time until they marry rich. You think they give a shit about those snotty little kindergartners? Not a chance in hell. They’re just relieved to make it through the day without puke—someone’s other than their own—on their most sensible Jimmy Choos.

  It’s exhausting. This is exactly why I don’t want children. At least not anymore. I’m not going to lie; there was a time when I did. After John and I were married, I got pregnant within a few years, without really trying. It was a boy. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand I was terrified. Having been raised by an abusive father and a mother who’d fallen victim to his sadistic behavior, I hardly had positive role models. On the other hand, I knew a child would afford me a whole new level of security as John’s wife, and maybe even an opportunity to right my parents’ egregious wrongs. John, for his part, was just happy about the prospect of having a son to carry on his family name. We both knew he wouldn’t actually care for the child in any way besides financial support. And I was okay with that. Who knows? I might have been a good mother.

  Unfortunately, twenty weeks into the pregnancy, we flew to Deer Valley to go skiing with a group of John’s friends and their wives. I barely knew how to ski—it’s a wealthy person’s sport—but I did it anyway. It was essential in order to fit in. On my third run down the bunny slope, I was minding my own business and cursing the fact that my fingers were frozen beyond feeling, when a two-hundred-pound man pummeled into me from behind. I fell straight forward onto my stomach and rolled directly into a tree. I don’t remember much after that.

  I never had the chance to mourn the loss of our baby. John wanted to put it behind us in the same way he would an unsatisfactory meal at a fine restaurant. He said it was a disappointment, but there was no discussion beyond a frown and a shake of his head. I tried for months to regain what I’d lost. I even mentioned the idea of fertility treatments. That was a mistake. John told me that people like us aren’t impotent. He blamed me, I’m sure of it.

  That was when I decided that one day I’d start my own business. I needed something I could control. Something that couldn’t be taken away from me. And, as it turns out, being a wife and a boss has become enough for me. Certainly, I could rely on my husband’s wealth. I could spend my days at The Spa at Mandarin Oriental. Or chitchatting with my girlfriends over a boozy lunch of lettuce-wrapped air at Gramercy Tavern. If I had girlfriends. But that’s not who I am. Or who I’ll ever be. My mother gave up her identity to live in my father’s shadow. She handed over her life to him and he squeezed her dry until all that was left was pulp. She didn’t have an out. There was no contingency plan until I left one for her, and even then, she was too fragile to take it. I’m smarter than that. I’m stronger than that.

  Speaking of, she called tonight. Just as I was leaving the office to come here. Eighteen years later, and she finally picked up the phone.

  When I saw that it was her, my stomach lurched and bile rose in my throat. I didn’t answer. How could I? Her message sounded urgent. She implored me to get back to her. But what’s there to say?

  She’s not going to give up, the message said to me, and I can’t risk that
she’ll try to get to me through John. Surely she’s seen photographs of us online. The glowing couple. She knows where I live and where I work. I’m an open book on the internet, which is mandatory. If you act like you have something to hide, the vultures will pick you to pieces. And I can’t have that. I know the only way to stop her is to talk to her. It’s inevitable. After nearly two decades of silence, what could be so important now? I need to know, even though I don’t want to.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” I whispered to John, as the lights dimmed and a movie screen came to life. They liquor you up first, then try to siphon your cash with photos of impoverished children. While you glug your champagne, check out three-year-old Lena, who’s listless and dehydrated. Won’t you pay for a clean glass of water?

  “Don’t be long,” he admonished.

  “I just need to run to the ladies’ room.”

  I slipped out of the banquet hall and stumbled upon an empty conference room a few doors down. I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  “Jordan?” She picked up on the first ring. I resisted the urge to correct her. She doesn’t know Jordana.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m so glad to hear from you. I . . . I wasn’t sure if you’d be in touch.”

  “This is a courtesy call. What do you want?” Why else would she reach out if not for money?

  “Your father . . .” Her voice caught in her throat. “Your father is very sick.”

  “Okay.” I wish I could say it mattered. But I hate that fucker.

  “This might be the end, Jordan. Do you understand?”