“Well, Yale or not, you seem to be doing well.”
“I guess so.”
“Come on! Give yourself a little credit. You ended a long-term relationship, moved away from home, landed a great job, and have the fabulous fortune of planning The Wedding of the Century.” We laughed together.
“Oh, you’re calling it that now too?”
“Only in jest. But don’t tell Caroline, she would not approve.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you.” He sat still for a moment and then stood up abruptly, steadying himself on the back of his chair. “Shall we?” He bent his elbow so I could loop my arm through his.
“We shall.” William stumbled a bit as we made our way out onto the street. I helped him into a cab, despite his insistence that it was ungentlemanly for him to leave first.
And then I stood there inhaling the balmy spring breeze and allowing the unrelenting vibration of the city to eddy around me.
I’ve arrived, I thought. My plan is unfolding.
Still, it’s not enough. I need to move things forward faster. Tinkering with details of the weddings alone isn’t going to achieve my goal. I’m just not sure what my next steps should be. And the clock is ticking.
I walked a few blocks, allowing my mind to ramble, as it often does. I thought about Jordana. About her poor mother. About how she must have felt when Jordana abandoned her. I thought about the fact that Jordana doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself and her fancy life. I thought about Sara—a true friend and a genuine person. A wife and a mother just trying to figure things out for herself, without screwing anyone else in the process. I thought again about what she’d said about Arthur Doonan and the new insight I’d gleaned from William. And why it is that people like Jordana and Arthur seem invincible, while people like me and Sara have to struggle to get what we want.
That’s when the idea came to me. In a flash of genius. Or it could have been the blurring effect of all the booze. Either way, if what I was thinking made sense, it could be the very thing that would solve all my problems. It would be a risk. But a risk worth taking.
I fished my cell phone out of my purse and texted Sara.
Meet me at my apartment in fifteen minutes.
Then I took one last breath of life, made my way toward the subway station, and headed home.
22 KERRIE
By the time I’d reached my front door, Sara was already there, sitting cross-legged in her pajamas on the intricately patterned industrial carpet that blankets my dimly lit hallway. Ick. Doesn’t she realize that people have chewing gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes? Or that they may have stepped in yellow snow?
“It took you long enough,” she grumbled.
“Sorry.” I turned my keys in the locks and let us in. “Drink?” I could hardly wait to tell her my idea.
“No thanks.”
“Really?” I set my purse down on the kitchen table and poured myself a tall glass of cold water from the sink. My body was still feverish from all the whiskey.
“Really. I’m not in the mood.”
“Is everything okay? You seem cranky.” I’d never seen Sara this irritable before. Come to think of it, I’d never seen her irritable at all. Sarcastic, often. Frenzied, most of the time. Entertaining, always. But never deadpan. It’s not her shtick.
“The good news is that no one is sick or dying. I just had a crap day.”
“Dante?” He’s usually the culprit.
“Surprisingly, no. Just more job shit. Three more rejections. One of which I was really counting on. It’s defeating.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She nestled her body into the corner of the couch. I took a seat on the very edge of the chair across from her. “Although I think I may be able to help you.”
“Help me with what?” She hugged a throw pillow to her chest like it was a flotation device. Or a shield.
“Your job search.” I took a few gulps of water and felt the cool liquid spread throughout my body before placing the glass on the coffee table.
“I appreciate that, but unless you have connections at a major newspaper . . .”
“Not exactly, just hear me out.” I gestured for her to remain silent. “I know this is going to sound crazy. So don’t discount it until I’m finished. Okay?”
“I guess.” She let go of the pillow and started picking at her chipped manicure.
“Promise me.”
“Oh my God, just say it!” She looked up and widened her eyes at me.
“I want to help you take down Arthur Doonan,” I announced without flinching.
“What are you talking about?” She laughed but sat up a little straighter.
“This isn’t funny. I can help you take him down. For real.” I stood up to make my point.
“You sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger. It’s hard not to find it comical.”
“You said Arthur is a crook, right?” I continued, pacing back and forth.
“Yeah,” she said with a nod.
“And you said you’re absolutely sure, right?” I stopped in front of her.
“Yes. I already told you that. When I was at The Wall Street Journal, it was considered fact, even though no one could actually prove it.”
“Well, then it’s not really a fact, if you want to be literal.”
“It’s a fact.” She rejected my attempt at accuracy.
“Then don’t you think he should pay for his purported crimes?” I sat back down and leaned toward Sara. I looked her directly in the eyes with an expression that said, I mean business. Or at least I hoped it did.
“Of course I do, but it’s not that simple, Olivia. He’s a giant in the financial world. A big-ass fucking giant.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Have you? Because it’s no joke. He’s no joke. It’s been said that Arthur has predicted every major turn in the stock market in the last twenty-five years. I know he owns a significant percentage of Manhattan commercial real estate. And he funds all sorts of shit, like really important think tanks. Mark Cuban might as well be his goddamn housekeeper!”
“I hear you,” I acknowledged, even though I refused to let her intimations daunt me.
“He’s untouchable,” she added, in case I hadn’t gotten it.
“So are you saying you wouldn’t want to take him down if the opportunity presented itself?” I pressed on, undeterred.
“No, but—”
“And do you think that maybe, if you did take him down, you’d have editors knocking down your door to hire you?”
“I suppose. I mean, yeah, definitely. But people have been trying to take him down, as you say, for years. What makes you think I could even begin to do it on my own? I don’t work in that space anymore.”
“You wouldn’t have to do it alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d have me.” I grinned. “And I have personal access.”
“Olivia, I’m so impressed that you’d even think of something like this.” She smiled. A smile that was so genuine, it reaffirmed my instinct to help her. “But I could never put you in a position like that. You do realize you could lose your own job in the process.”
“I do.” Which is why, if Sara decides to get on board, I’ll have to explain to her how Arthur’s demise serves my purpose as well as hers. That is the genius of it.
“And that’s crazy. You said it yourself.”
“So what?”
“You have no idea who you’d be dealing with, Olivia. Screwing with Arthur Doonan isn’t a game.”
“I’m well aware that the stakes are high.”
“To say the least. It seems pretty impossible, actually.”
I felt spurned on her behalf. This wasn’t the scrappy Sara I knew.
“We’re friends, right?” I asked, even though our relationship is founded on lies.
“Of course.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Sure.”
&n
bsp; “Then just think about it, okay?”
“Olivia.” She stood up, and I did the same. “I’m so flattered that you want to help me. It means a lot. I just don’t see how this could work. And I kind of need to get back down to Dante. He’s been really fussy all day, and Joel is trying to get some work done.”
She started to walk toward the door, and I followed her. “Please just think about it.”
“Okay,” she conceded, and then turned around to hug me. An uncharacteristic display of affection. “I’m really glad you’re in my life, Olivia.”
“I feel the same way.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sleep tight.” She patted me on the arm.
“Sounds good.” I smiled, sensing in that moment that I might be able to bring her around.
And also knowing that, if that was the case, I’d have to tell her everything.
23 JORDANA
“I won’t be home until late tonight,” I announced. I sensed John’s shadow hovering behind me as I folded a light sweater into my bag. Connecticut can be chilly at night, even at the end of May.
Yes, I’m going. With just under three weeks left until the wedding that will either secure my position as the preeminent wedding concierge in New York City or eternally tarnish the reputation I’ve worked tirelessly to curate, I’m returning to where it all began.
Believe me when I say that anything else would be less excruciating. Anything. I’d rather be photographed in last season’s Chanel at the Met Ball. Or be seated in the third row at New York Fashion Week. I’d even maroon myself on a desert island with Caroline Doonan and her lap dog.
“Oh?” John’s attention was piqued.
“I’m going to Boston for the day,” I answered, even though he didn’t ask. “There’s a fabric store on Newbury Street that’s supposed to be spectacular. One of my brides asked if I could meet her there in person to help design her gown.” I stopped myself from saying any more. Providing too many details is what liars do. I know better.
“That’s a lot of driving,” he said.
“I’m fine with it.”
“That’s not the point,” he bristled. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that time is money. So the question is: Is it necessary? Is it the best use of your whole day? Not: Are you fine with it?” John doesn’t mind being apart. But he does mind when I’m the one to leave. I know this because, in the past six months alone, he’s been working much later hours and taking more “business” trips than he has in the last five years. He says he’s been meeting with Arthur Doonan, but I suspect otherwise. Either way, he doesn’t complain then.
“I think it’s necessary.”
“There are no suitable fabric stores in Manhattan?”
“Of course there are, but this one is supposed to be the best. That’s what my clients command. You know that.”
“Well then, I suppose I can pick up my dry cleaning. And make myself dinner.” His tone was light, though trodden with meaning.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” John is well aware that we have a housekeeper and a chef who are salaried to do these sorts of things, but he never communicates with them directly. He tells me what he wants done and then, miraculously, it happens. Or, more accurately, I anticipate his needs and desires and guarantee they’re taken care of—by anyone but me. I don’t even think he knows our housekeeper’s name. And that we pay her cash under the table. He could get in trouble for that. Because of his line of work, John is meticulous about keeping his hands clean. It may be the one thing I admire about him. “Dora will pick up your suits and shirts and hang them in the closet, as she always does. And Chef will make you whatever you’d like for dinner.” I avoided eye contact, which is another sure sign of a liar.
“Forget about it. I’ll just go out.” I didn’t bother to ask with whom.
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I hope the fabric store is worth it.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
I have no idea why my mother is so insistent that I come home now after eighteen years of radio silence. I have no idea why she wants me to see my father before he dies. Or why she thinks I’d want to. Frankly, it’s an insult. I cut out when I was seventeen. When he slapped me across the face and aimed a gun at my chest.
The thing is, she didn’t give enough of a shit to try and find me until the man who tortured us decided he needed an eleventh-hour farewell. Have I thought about what my father’s death means to me? Sure. Nothing. Just because we’re genetically related does not make him family.
But, per usual, I bet my mother will forgive his felonies.
I’m not sure what John would say about me if I were dying. He barely knows me. And the me he does know isn’t the real me anyway. Still, it would probably be a glowing epitaph. He’d use words like charitable and altruistic. After all, we do sprinkle our wealth around, and he wants everyone to know it. John actually sneers at people who donate anonymously. Because, why would someone bother being benevolent without recognition? What a waste of goodwill that would be.
“How about a little something to hold me over until tomorrow?” John whispered in my ear, calling me back from my reverie. He gripped my arms firmly and turned me toward him before pressing his lips determinedly to mine. Then he negotiated his tongue between my teeth and his hand up my skirt. There’s always an urgency in his approach, especially when he feels marginalized. And once he’s aroused, he must be sated.
“Is this what you had in mind?” I dropped to my knees, and his eyes widened with lust. He nodded, unbuckling his belt and allowing me to do the rest. Then he moaned like a horny adolescent.
Every smart woman knows a blow job is much more efficient than sex. And less messy.
“Oh God yeah . . . oh yeah . . . faster . . . harder. That’s right, baby.” He thrust his hips like a mechanical bull until releasing one last rapturous roar. “That was fucking amazing.” He smiled lasciviously and swaggered into the bathroom to clean himself off.
“Don’t you forget it,” I called after him, reaching into my purse for a breath mint.
He didn’t reply.
So I slipped out quietly. Without saying good-bye.
Sure, the time will come when I’m fed up with this life. When suffocation will nudge me toward liberation. I’m not there yet. But I know I will be.
And when that time does come, I’ll finally be able to break free. I’ll finally be able to find peace.
That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
24 KERRIE
As first, Sara wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about messing around in Arthur Doonan’s business. That I anticipated. Then, this morning, when I spoke to her on the telephone, she restated that it really didn’t seem like something that would end well for either of us.
Kerrie would have accepted that. She would have said something like, Sure, I understand. Or, It probably wasn’t a good idea in the first place. That’s what people pleasers do.
But now that I’m Olivia, my focus has become me. And I’m not prepared to back down that easily, especially when I know I’m on to something.
Since Jordana is out of the office, I asked Sara to meet me here, so I can help her understand how our objectives coincide. If we can prove that Arthur is guilty, which is the wild card—and it’s a doozy—then both Jordana and John’s names will be disgraced for being affiliated with a criminal, at which point I’ll reveal everything about Jordana’s past to her husband and all her “friends.” John will also be out of a job. Sara, on the other hand, will be fielding lucrative offers left and right. Win-win.
Of course, if we’re going to be in this together, there’s something she needs to know. I’m aware that revealing myself to anyone is a gamble. It may even be a big mistake. But the only way we’ll be able to operate as a team is if she understands my motives in the same way I understand hers. And anyway, now that I finally have a true friend, I’m going to try not to spoil it.
A friend. Oddly, the one
thing I have that Jordana doesn’t. Who knows? Maybe I would have been Jordana’s friend if our pasts hadn’t collided. If I’d applied for this job without knowing who she was or what she’d done. Day in and day out, it’s a unique challenge to remember that she’s my target, not my comrade. When your mission is to convince someone you hate to adore and respect you, there are times when fiction and reality become muddled. So I have to remind myself who she is. What she did. And how I need to make her pay.
“Hey lady!” Sara busted through the front door in skinny jeans, a camo-printed T-shirt, and slides with the Gucci symbol stamped all over them. Her chin-length black hair was blown straight to cup her face, and for a change she appeared to be wearing a decent amount of makeup.
“Wow, you look awesome.” I stood up and walked toward her.
“Thanks. I needed a pick-me-up after all that self-pity.” She spread her arms. “No more pit-stained tops. No more rubber flip-flops from Duane Reade, though those fuckers are comfortable. I may be a stay-at-home mom, but I don’t have to look like a bag lady. You get me?”
“I get you.”
“This place is nice.” She looked around. “A little sterile for my taste, but nice. You still like it here?”
“I do.”
“Ha! Pun intended.”
“Very funny.” I rolled my eyes.
“So what’s up? What’s the big secret? I can’t stay long. Dante is with a babysitter and she has to leave in an hour.”
“Let’s talk over here.” I motioned to the white linen sofa and sat down. In order to lure Sara here, I’d told her that there was something major I had to tell her. Beyond my plan to take down Arthur Doonan.
“I’m definitely intrigued.” She sat down too, but her eyes were still darting all over the place.
“I’m not exactly sure how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it.”
“Okay.” Sara was finally paying attention.
“I’m not who you think I am. My name is Kerrie O’Malley, not Olivia Lewis.”
“Excuse me?”
Pretty Revenge Page 14
