Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

  “That sounds like a great reason.” Cathy rolled her eyes.

  “I realize you’re being sarcastic, but it’s the truth. She’s making me. I can’t very well let her come here and meet John. He thinks she’s dead. And that I grew up in Westport, where the rich people live. Not Bridgeport, where the people who work for the people in Westport live.”

  “Maybe it’s time to stop living a lie, then. Ever thought of that?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If John knew I wasn’t everything he signed up for, he’d divorce me without a second thought.” I imagined bringing him to my old neighborhood, where the houses did not have fresh paint jobs, pared lawns, and flower beds. Not even close. Our lawn was always weedy, with brown patches that had been dehydrated by the sun.

  I wonder what it would have been like to be raised by normal parents who cared for me, both physically and emotionally. A normal family—where everyone goes to the movies together on Sunday afternoon. A family in which the mother’s eyes weren’t black and blue and her lips weren’t split. I envision a father who was anyone but my own.

  If things had been different then, would things be different now, too? Would I be in a loving relationship with two-point-three kids, a Goldendoodle, and a sports luxury vehicle with an I’M A PROUD SOCCER MOM! bumper sticker? I shook off the idea.

  “I’ve always thought John sounded like a winner.”

  “It’s not just him. If all the people we socialize with and all my clients found out about my past, they would disappear faster than vintage Gucci at an estate sale.”

  “God forbid.” She looked at me disbelievingly.

  “I’ll get out eventually.” I stared into my lap.

  “I hope so. I don’t know what you see in that husband of yours anyway.”

  But I remember what I saw the night I met John: money.

  A man I was casually dating at the time, Allen, had brought me as his date to the annual Juvenile Diabetes gala. I was looking especially radiant in a strapless red Valentino gown I’d swiped from the bargain bin at Bloomingdale’s. When I found it, there was a gaping slash down one side and the saleswoman said it would never fall the way it was supposed to, thus the rock-bottom price. I didn’t care. The opportunity to own a dress of that caliber was worth the investment to have it repaired. So I bought it and took it to a tailor around the corner from my apartment—a Japanese woman the size of my pinky finger who worked her magic. Then I asked Gilda to work hers. The results were everything I’d hoped for. My makeup was fresh but sophisticated, and my newly blond hair was coiled into loose ringlets that fell effortlessly around my face and down to my collarbone. Call it luck, but I knew exactly what I was doing.

  I’d met Allen at the restaurant where I was working. He’d asked me out a number of times and I’d declined because he wasn’t my type. Allen was an investment banker. Real buttoned-up on the surface. He wore wire-rimmed glasses low on his arched nose. And had hair misting from his nostrils, even though he was bald on top. Allen was a nattering fool when you tried to have a conversation with him that wasn’t about stock prices and number crunching. But when he asked me to accompany him to a charity event, I knew I couldn’t say no. It was my first entrée into a world I’d never been a part of.

  Then in walked John. With Sylvia. She described herself as a powerhouse prosecutor, but I couldn’t look past her sunken eyes and protruding forehead. I didn’t care about her. All I cared about was that the opportunity had been handed to me. God must have said to himself, Well, this girl’s had a dreadful excuse for a life so far; time to throw her a bone. I could practically hear him whispering it in my ear. So I pinched that bone between my teeth.

  I sidled right up to John—who was handsome and clearly successful, and who had a full head of hair. I ignored my own companion and his, because our connection was instant. I told myself not to fall for him, but to focus on the big picture instead. To devote myself to keeping him happy in order to secure my silver spoon. I fluttered my eyelashes and grazed his thigh with my hand when no one was paying attention. I laughed too hard at his jokes and replied to every question he asked with the answer I knew he wanted—perfect little lies. By the time dessert arrived, John said he was ready to leave. I slept next to him in his bed that night, but I didn’t have sex with him. I made him pursue me. I knew I’d lose him if I made it too easy.

  John later told me that he’d been drawn to me because I didn’t throw myself at him. And also because I was stunning to look at, confident, clever, and street-smart, unlike so many of the tediously banal women he’d dated prior to me. But I know that what really hooked him was my constant attention to his every whim. Men are like children. They need to be coddled and cared for above everyone else.

  Four months later, we were married at seven o’clock in the evening at the Metropolitan Club on Sixtieth Street and Fifth Avenue. I was resplendent in a strapless Vera Wang ball gown. The bodice was embellished with thousands of Swarovski crystals and the skirt was bolstered with tulle and overlaid with lace. My hair was pulled back in a loose chignon and fastened with a two-tier, cathedral-length veil, which I wore shrouding my face. It’s very important for the bride to appear virginal.

  John, for his part, was dashing in a double-breasted Prada tuxedo he’d purchased specially for our big day. I carried long-stemmed, bloodred calla lilies, and guests dined on foie gras followed by lobster and filet mignon. We were the picture of wedded bliss before three hundred of John’s friends and family. An audience of strangers to me.

  Planning our wedding was my first foray into an industry I’d eventually take by storm. It afforded me a glimpse of how the insecurity and daydreams of rich people impel them to pour endless amounts of money into one fleeting event. While I didn’t know back then that owning a concierge service was in my future, I did know that there was a prospect there. And I knew I’d be very good at it, if and when the time came.

  “Forget John. This isn’t about him,” I said, returning from my reverie.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Cathy. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

  “Then you’ve come to the wrong place, honey.”

  “I am not seeing my father.”

  “So you said.”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  “Of course you do.” Cathy stood up and so did I. “I adore you. You know that. And I’m sympathetic to your predicament. But I also believe that you know what you have to do.” She opened her arms and I folded myself into them. “Sorry to cut this short. I have a paying client who will be here in five minutes.”

  “No, of course. Thank you for the impromptu therapy session.”

  “Anytime.” She released me from her embrace. “Now, go on. You can do this. You’re one of the strongest women I know.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” I shook my head.

  “Well I am,” she said with a nod. “Call me if you need me.”

  “I may take you up on that.”

  “Good.” She walked me to the door. “And tell your mother that her daughter has someone looking out for her. Two people.” Then she opened the door and smiled. “A mother needs to know that.”

  21  KERRIE

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about whiskey tastings—because, as you might imagine, this is my first—it’s that it’s impossible not to end up marginally drunk. Of course, it wasn’t my intention to get drunk. My intention was to remain focused and clearheaded. In part because I’m here in a professional capacity. Fortunately, William is three sheets further to the wind than I am, and he seems to find the whole thing entirely amusing, which is a relief because—for the last four days—I’ve been investing all my energy in stepping up my sabotage game and I’m ready to relax for a change.

  Let’s just say that the envelope with the rent check that the building manager picked up did not actually have the rent check in it. Somehow that made its way into the trash can on the corner of Eighty-Seventh Street. Go figure.


  I also started tweaking details of the other weddings we’re planning. For example, both Adam Levine and Lady Gaga, whom Alexa Griffin had her heart set on performing two songs apiece—no expense spared—passed on the opportunity. Their managers emailed Jordana, but somehow the messages got deleted. When Alexa checked in this afternoon, I said, “We’re still working on it! Fingers crossed!” Once Jordana realizes, there will never be enough time to get another artist of equal caliber. Or likely even close. She’ll be calling dive bars in the village in search of a halfway decent cover band. Madame Levine anyone?

  Then there’s Lucy Noble and Donald Cooper. Donald’s mom, Mindy, phoned on Wednesday to tell me she’s planning a surprise for their reception. I said, “Fabulous!” Who doesn’t love surprises? Lucy. Especially when it comes to her mother-in-law-to-be, who’s a sloppy drunk known for her inappropriate public displays. I’m only privy to this information because I read an email to Jordana from Lucy’s fiancé, Donald, saying exactly that. Oops.

  I know how all of this seems. And I’ll admit there’s a large part of me that feels icky that innocent people are being entangled in my mission, but I can’t let myself be derailed. Hearing the urgency in Gillian Butler’s voice amplified my thirst for revenge.

  “Are you having fun yet?” William leaned toward me conspiratorially. We’ve been at a spot called The Flatiron Room for the last hour or so, drinking a lot and eating very little. It’s located in the heart of New York City’s Flatiron District—another area I’ve never been to before. It’s so exciting discovering new neighborhoods!

  The space is rich and masculine, with coffered ceilings, wood moldings, leather banquettes, and oversize chandeliers. Countless bottles of whiskey are showcased in see-through, back-lit cabinets surrounding us, and there’s a grand stage with thick red velvet curtains, even though we’re the only ones here. It’s like everything around us is glowing beneath the softest candlelight. If I had to choose one word and one word only to describe the atmosphere, it would be sexy.

  “I am having fun. I’ve never done anything like this.” I took a sip of a thirty-year-old scotch blend and set my glass down on the table next to the others, as the liquid filled and warmed my chest. There are a few things I’ve gathered thus far. For one, whiskey can be spelled two different ways—with or without an e. Who knew? And there are about a zillion different kinds of whiskey (or whisky)—Irish, American, Canadian, Japanese, and White, to name a few. There are whiskeys from the Highlands, the Lowlands, the islands, pretty much from everywhere across the globe. Also, and this was a revelation for me, scotch and bourbon are types of whiskey, too. Again, who knew?

  “You’ve been missing out, then.” William smiled and his eyes glinted.

  “Clearly.” I smiled back. Once our server had finished presenting our choices, he’d left us to our own devices—to sit for as long as we liked, and continue to taste. “This isn’t where you’re having the rehearsal dinner, though?” I slipped my heels off underneath the table and wiggled my toes.

  William laughed. “No. The dinner is at Caroline’s friends’ apartments on Central Park South. It’s spectacular, and the view is among the best in the city. Eric Ripert is cooking everything on site, and I heard Billy Joel is going to rattle off a couple of songs on their Steinway.”

  “Who’s Eric Ripert?”

  “You know, he owns Le Bernardin.” He pronounced it with a terrible French accent, which was adorable.

  “Can’t say that I do, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You have heard of Billy Joel, right?” He smirked.

  “Very funny. My nana loved the song ‘Only the Good Die Young.’ ” Ironic, I know.

  “She had good taste. Anyway, we’re just here to get an idea of which varieties we like for the private tasting that night. Can you imagine Caroline and Arthur hosting a party here?”

  “I guess not. It’s a really cool place, though.”

  “Exactly. And would you consider Caroline and Arthur cool?”

  “I’ve never met Arthur, but definitely not Caroline.” I picked up a different glass and sampled something called a Black Bull forty-year Duncan Taylor. It went down smooth. “But isn’t your father throwing the rehearsal dinner?”

  “He is, but he’s just along for the ride like I am. Caroline’s the ring leader, if you haven’t noticed.” William tilted his head back and finished off a rye called Dad’s Hat, which seemed appropriate given the conversation.

  “Right,” I said, nodding soberly even though I was far from it. “I’ve definitely noticed.”

  “Arthur, on the other hand. He just signs the checks. I don’t think he gives a crap about the actual wedding.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “He must care about Tatiana’s happiness. She’s his daughter.”

  “One would think. But all Arthur really cares about is money and power and getting what he wants no matter the cost or the collateral damage. That’s about it.”

  “Oh.” I thought about what Jordana said about him, and also what Sara said at the bar about him being a crook. “He doesn’t sound like the nicest guy.”

  “Nice?” William laughed. “That’s definitely not how I’d describe him.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Eh, he is who he is. But enough about Arthur.”

  “Yeah, of course.” I took that as a cue to drop the subject. “So I think we’re set with most of your stuff for the wedding. My checklist is pretty much complete.”

  “That’s awesome. Thank you so much for all of your help, Olivia. It’s been really great knowing that you’re on top of everything and that you have my best interest at heart.”

  “That’s my job!” I declared, a little too enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, but you’ve gone above and beyond. You’ve been a friend, too, and I truly appreciate it.”

  “Thank you,” I practically whispered to overcompensate. And again reminded myself of Jordana’s cardinal rule: Never, ever become invested in the relationships of our brides and grooms. “Is there anything else you want to go over? Like the time line for that day. Or which cigars you want for the men? Obviously, we still need to find you a ring.” I searched my brain for any other outstanding business items, but everything was so fuzzy.

  “You know what? Let’s not talk about the wedding anymore. I know it sounds odd, since we’re here for that reason, but lately it feels like it’s been consuming my life and I need a break, if that’s okay.” He propped his elbows on either side of his plate and rested his chin in his palms, like a little kid would. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you planning to get married?” It seemed like a strange question, coming from someone who wanted to move away from the subject.

  “I’ll probably need a boyfriend first.” The heat from my chest rose to my cheeks, which had to be bright red.

  “You don’t have a boyfriend?” He sounded surprised, which—in turn—surprised me.

  “I did, but we broke up.” I wanted William to know I’m not a complete loser.

  “Oh, I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s fine. It was my decision.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I paused to find some clarity. On the one hand, I want to be honest with William. If we really are friends, like he says, I feel like I should be as truthful as I can be without revealing something that might give me away—as contrary as that sounds. “I guess I realized that I wasn’t passionate about him in the way that I should be, you know, if I wanted to be with him forever.”

  “Forever is a long time.” William looked past me with glazed eyes. I could tell he was thinking about something beyond me and Matthew. “Why else?”

  “He didn’t inspire me. We sort of found ourselves in a rut. And at some point I knew that if I didn’t make a change, I might never figure out who I really want to be.”

  “That’s so profound.” He bobbed his head up and down in slow motion. />
  “I’m not sure about that.” I snorted. Damn whiskey. “I think it just sounds that way because we’ve had a lot of alcohol.”

  “I don’t know. It makes a lot of sense to me.” He shrugged but didn’t say anything else, so I took the opportunity to draw the conversation back to business and away from Matthew.

  “If we could just talk about the rehearsal dinner for a minute?”

  “Okay,” William relented, though he looked disinterested.

  “Do you know which of the whiskeys you want me to order?” I asked. “I want to make note of them now. I’m a little concerned that they’ll all blend together if we wait until tomorrow.”

  “You’re probably right.” He straightened up and attempted to look sober. “All right, so I’d say my favorites were the Irish, the Japanese, and the White. Also, there were a couple I liked from the Lowlands and the islands. Can you ask for a list of those?”

  “Absolutely.” I keyed his selections into my phone.

  “Oh, and Dad’s Hat. That one was delicious.”

  “I agree.”

  “So, your ex-boyfriend. He’s back in Palm Beach?” Just when I thought he’d forgotten about Matthew . . .

  “Yup.” Or Connecticut. Tomato, tom-ah-to.

  “Do you still speak to him?”

  “Not since I left.”

  “How long were you together?”

  “Three years.”

  “Wow.” William was somewhat alert again. “And just like that you were able to walk away?”

  “It was a long time coming. Sometimes you need a nudge; an impetus to propel you forward and dislodge you from a situation that’s comfortable but not stimulating.”

  “You are so right.” He studied my face. “You’re really smart, Olivia. Where did you say you went to school?”

  “I don’t think I did. Nowhere prestigious.” I looked down. “I’d hoped to go to Yale, but it didn’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “My plan got derailed.” I couldn’t very well tell him it was because my life—financial and emotional—went haywire when Nana died. That someone—Jordana—stole everything from us.