No! What if he was ugly?
What’s gotten into you, Olivia? You don’t care about that.
What if he wasn’t a movie star?
Good! Snap out of it!
What if he was pervy and creepy?
Okay, that’s an actual concern. But it’s four minutes in a room full of people. Do it for Yemen!
The auctioneer glanced back at the highest bidder, though I was afraid to do the same. He then looked at the papers in his hands, matching the paddle number to the list before him.
“Sold! Ms. Olivia Ross, for one hundred thousand dollars, to the representative from the law firm of Boynes & Madison!”
Liam? Liam was there? Liam had bid on me?
Liam had bid on me!
That made so much sense. That was why Fiona had apologized. She hadn’t known he was coming. In all that time that neither of us had heard from him, he’d been working through some things and waiting until the time was right. He’d wanted to return and pledge his eternal love to me through a grand, romantic gesture that hinged entirely upon Charlize Theron coming down with the flu. Brilliant!
Except that actually made no sense whatsoever. Liam no longer worked at Boynes & Madison . . . unless I’d made the wrong assumption. When I called on his birthday and the voice of some lawyer named Simon sounded on the office voicemail, maybe I shouldn’t have rushed to judgment. That was it. Liam hadn’t left. He’d been promoted. And contrary to my egocentric belief, he hadn’t moved out of his apartment for the sole purpose of making sure I could never contact him again. With that promotion came a lot more money. Of course! He’d been blissfully planning our long-awaited reunion from a house in Bel Air.
“Oh, my apologies.” The voice from the podium spoke once again. “I believe I had an outdated reference on my master list. The representative is from the law firm of Boynes, Madison & Larcraft. Congratulations to Mr. Malcolm Larcraft. Mr. Clooney and Mr. MacDougal, you were worthy adversaries for the attention of Ms. Ross. Well done.”
I stood in a fog until Fiona rushed onto the stage to help me off, just as Matthew McConaughey took my place on the auction block.
“Livi, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as tears formed in her exquisitely made-up eyes. “I had no idea he would be here. They just handed me the final guest list. He was a late addition.”
As Liam’s girlfriend, Fiona had been forced to socialize in Malcolm’s vicinity a few times—at various company gatherings and such. But since then she’d been filled in on all the good, the bad, and the lying, cheating, heartbreaking deceit of my relationship with him, all of which had occurred while Fi was in Paris. Needless to say, between cheating on me and forcing Liam to work overtime on Valentine’s Day, Malcolm Larcraft was not on Fiona’s fan list.
I sighed and felt a few soft tears of my own fall. “Hey, it’s okay,” I said sadly. I tried to be reassuring as I pulled her to me for a hug. “There’s no way you could have known. It’s not a big deal.” I knew that was just a hypothesis until I laid eyes on him. “You know what, though?” I pulled away and smiled at her with determination and, for the first time in ages, hope. “I’m going to go talk to Hamish. How long until that first dance?”
Her face lit up. “You’ve got at least ten minutes. How can I help?”
I didn’t know how she could help because I had no plan whatsoever. All I knew was that February 4 was not a fluke. I didn’t understand what caused it or even what the point of any of it was. All I knew was that I was on the seventh February 4 in a row made up almost entirely of confusing emotions and opportunities—none of which I had previously seized to satisfaction—and for whatever reason, Hamish MacDougal was usually at the center of it all. Well, Hamish MacDougal or Liam Howard. Now, apparently, we were throwing in a recurring Malcolm Larcraft component. Whatever. I’d sort all that out later. Right then, Hamish and I were in the same building, and rather than wait four more years, he’d just offered up five figures for four minutes with me.
“Do you think there’s a way you can stall Malcolm?”
She squealed with menacing delight. “Sure!”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath and ran trembling hands over the abdomen of my Vera to smooth out the silk—and to try to settle the butterflies. “Okay. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck, Livi. You’re the most gorgeous woman in the room, and this is your night. He’s probably wandering around looking for you right now! I’ll stall Malcolm. I’ll even stall the dance if I can. Now go!”
I grabbed either side of my dress at the knees and hiked it up a little higher above my ankles. I contemplated whipping off my slingback heels and carrying them, but decided it was more dangerous to scurry across a marble floor in pantyhose. Okay, Hamish . . . where are you? I surveyed the packed room. So much black and white! How was I ever supposed to find one tuxedo-clad needle in this haystack?
And yet Clooney kept finding me time and time again.
“Any other time, George. Any other time,” I muttered as he began heading once again in my general direction, and I took off the opposite way.
I tried to keep myself from getting discouraged by imagining how it was all going to play out. I would walk outside and look around aimlessly, despite the fact that I was eagerly searching for something—much like Cinderella when the clock strikes midnight—and then I would see him. He would be leaning up against the same well-loved classic convertible from so many years ago, his bow tie undone and the top two buttons of his shirt freed from their formal captivity. He would stand up straight, and a smile would overtake his face as he began to walk slowly toward me.
“This seems like as good a time as any to confess that I have no idea where Sri Lanka is,” I would say. He would look down at his feet and try to hide the width of the smile that consumed him as he realized just how much he had missed our banter . . . but he wouldn’t succeed.
At that point, I knew one of three things would happen. Possibility One: He would gallantly offer me his arm and we would walk the gardens of the Getty for hours, talking and laughing. Possibility Two: He would gallantly—but mischievously—open the passenger door of the convertible. I would get in, and we would drive off to the Mulholland Drive overlook, where we would park and make out until sunrise. Possibility Three: George Clooney would somehow break in there, and either Possibility One or Possibility Two would happen with him instead of Hamish.
Except all of that was how it would happen in the movies. Not real life.
But then, in a moment that really did feel like a scene from someone’s imagination, a song ended and the crowd parted, and I spotted Hamish MacDougal standing thirty feet away from me talking to Michael Keaton. I made a quick mental note to remember to ask Fiona if all the Batmen had been invited or just Michael and George, and then I set off toward my destiny. And I was almost there when I ran smack into Ralph Fiennes, who seemed to materialize out of thin air. How very Voldemortish of him.
“Olivia, isn’t it? Yes. Olivia Ross,” he said in a voice that, I must admit, was manly and sexy and nearly enough to make me view him through the sensuous sepia hues of The English Patient rather than the monochromatically contrived filter of Maid in Manhattan. But either way, I had to keep my eyes on the prize.
I turned away from him, back to where Hamish had just been standing. The crowd was no longer parted, but I could just make out Michael Keaton over a few heads. Michael Keaton. Alone.
“Sorry, Ralph. No time!”
I pushed through the bodies in my way and saw Hamish’s wavy hair and broad shoulders in silhouette as he neared the door. He was going outside! Or possibly the bathroom. No. Outside. Possibilities One and Two were still on the table.
My eyes struggled to adjust to the dimmer lights as I followed him toward the exit, but by the time I could see clearly, I had lost him. I had a choice to make. Did I continue on straight ahead and chase the outdoor cinematic ending? Or did I turn left and pursue the less romantic but more realistic scenario in which I would be wait
ing in the hallway for him when he finished up in the men’s room?
Against my more rational judgment I stepped outside, and real life crashed down upon me as I snagged the lace hem of my Vera Wang gown on the stem of a bay laurel topiary. I struggled to catch my breath while I looked around aimlessly. No one was waiting for me. That was it. It was official. I was meant to possess neither love nor designer clothes.
I could run back in. I could go down the hallway. I could take a chance that I would get there before Hamish exited the restroom, just in case he was actually in there and a car hadn’t already driven him away. But the very concept of waiting for him while he finished up at the urinal was the wakeup call my perception of reality needed.
I looked out over the beautiful gardens and wanted nothing more than to run to them and get lost. A lifetime of not caring about romance. Of not fantasizing my days away. Of refusing to get caught up in emotions that were destined to lead to disappointment. This was why. This was what I knew about life—certainly about my life—that no one else seemed to understand. It just wasn’t in the cards for me.
I’d been okay with that—and then they’d ruined me. Hamish and Liam and Malcolm. They’d each done their part to chip away, little by little. I hadn’t asked for it. I hadn’t asked for the pain that came with knowing no one would ever care enough to fight for me. The pain that came with wishing they would. Why was it that men accepted the end so easily when it came to me? Why did they accept with such finality little hiccups like having to rush off to auditions and breakups and being told I didn’t love them and the bidding getting up to six figures?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a loud voice boomed across the property. “The dance is about to begin. Will all first-dance participants please report to the ballroom at once?”
My brain told me it was over, but my heart somehow convinced my eyes to appraise the grounds one more time. Just in case.
Nothing.
No one.
The cold washed over me as quickly as if I had cannonballed into a swimming pool full of blue raspberry slushie in Death Valley in the middle of summer, and I found myself welcoming it.
I ignored the desire to run to the gardens and hide away and instead turned on my heel to go back inside. I would dance with the lying, cheating cretin who had spent a hundred grand of company money for the privilege of holding me in his arms for four minutes. I’d try to disregard the memory of when I’d wanted nothing more than to beg him to hold me for a lifetime—no charge. I’d do it for Yemen. More importantly, I’d do it for Fiona. And then I’d get out of there as quickly as I possibly could, before anything else could trick my weakened resolve into believing, for even a moment more, that I had been cast into any roles that I hadn’t been born to play.
He was waiting for me on the fringe of the haystack, the fact that he was the needle I had once loved making him stand out in a class all his own. In every other way, he blended in. He belonged there. He spoke the same language and sported the same style as all the other people in the room who had paid exorbitant prices to see and be seen.
“Nice tux,” I greeted him. “Armani?”
“Tom Ford.”
“What are you doing, Malcolm?”
“You look gorgeous, Liv. I would try to guess who made your outfit, but you know I have no idea.”
“Vera Wang.”
“It suits you.”
Note to self: don’t turn around and let him see the topiary damage.
“What are you doing, Malcolm?” I repeated.
“What do you mean—”
I scoffed. “You know what I mean. You threw away a lot of money on someone with two left feet.”
“That’s not true. If I recall, you and I had a lot of fun on the dance floor together.”
“It’s always fun when you’re dancing with someone you like.”
He shrugged and inched closer. “Then I’m going to have fun.”
“Does it matter at all to you that I’m not?”
He cleared his throat and shuffled his shiny black shoes. “Look, Liv, I’m sorry. Not a day has gone by in the past three years that I haven’t wished—”
“That you hadn’t slept with your secretary?”
The amplified voice came across the sound system again. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Lakeside Society wishes to thank you, once again, for your benevolence. As you know, the Lakeside Society exists to bring attention and awareness to the plight of the many countries of the world where there is not enough water to sustain life.”
I knew Fi was quoting that from a pamphlet.
“Because of your generosity here tonight, you are part of that important mission. Your impact will sustain communities for generations to come. Thank you. And now, would all first-dance participants please find their way to the dance floor.”
I took Malcolm’s offered hand and walked with him to the center of the room. We passed Robert Downey Jr. escorting Thandie Newton, who had apparently been his highest bidder. Matthew McConaughey was already sambaing around the floor with Tilda Swinton, and they quickly took the award for my favorite pairing of the night. George Clooney had Betty White in his arms, and even that coupling made better sense than me with any man in the building.
Hamish was nowhere to be seen, and as the opening chords of Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” began playing, I convinced myself to stop looking.
“Katie isn’t my secretary,” Malcolm spoke into my ear as my cheek lined up with his.
I pulled back and looked at him as he twirled us with expertise. “I’m sorry, what?”
“She’s not my secretary, Liv, and you know it. You make it sound so . . . I don’t know . . . cliché. Tacky.”
I did a double take. “Hang on. Katie Bronson? The junior counsel you were working on that case with? The case that was so important we couldn’t go to Italy? The Katie who set me up with that great caterer for the New Year’s party you and I threw? That Katie? That’s who you slept with?”
He froze, and the twirling ceased until Matthew and Tilda, oblivious to all life outside of their delightful bubble, bumped into us. Malcolm pulled me against him and found the rhythm again.
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know! I just said it was your secretary because, well . . . you know . . . because it was cliché and tacky.”
That was the moment when I, at least momentarily, lost my mind. I began to laugh maniacally, and I couldn’t control it at all. He, on the other hand, looked terrified. Olivia Ross was sensible, for the most part. Olivia Ross did a pretty good job of keeping her emotions in check. Olivia Ross was not typically prone to mental breakdowns in a roomful of celebrities.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I assumed he told you.”
I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all. “You assumed who told me?” Of course, as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew.
“Liam. He never seemed to like me as much after all of that, and I figured that was probably because the two of you were better friends than either one of you let on.”
The tightness in my chest worked its way up and constricted my throat. “Yeah, it couldn’t have had anything to do with him realizing you weren’t, in fact, likable.”
“Actually,” he began with a casual tone, though his twitchy fingers against my waist gave away the gravity he was feeling. “I always wondered if it was you.”
“If what was me?”
“If you were the one who broke him.”
It had been a long time since I’d had any desire to be back in Malcolm’s arms, but in that moment I knew they were the only thing keeping me upright.
“‘Broke him’?”
He loosened his grip on my waist and leaned his shoulders back to look at me. “Smart money was on Fiona, I guess. I mean, one day they were this perfect, happy couple, and the next he was giving his notice. But when I tried to convince him to stay, it was suddenly all about you.”
“What do you mean?” I whimpered.
I was desperate for information and clinging to every painful word, but I had no faith whatsoever in my ability to get through the conversation in one piece.
He shrugged again. “He said he couldn’t work for someone like me. Someone who had treated you the way I had.”
I cleared my throat. “It sounds like that was about you, Malcolm. Not me.”
Eric Clapton’s final notes rang out, and I pulled out of Malcolm’s grasp as people all around us began to clap.
“Larcraft! I thought that was you!” I heard the voice from behind me as an elderly couple rushed toward us.
“Rick, Kathleen, how good to see you.” He shook the man’s hand and kissed the woman on the cheek. His voice was in control, but his eyes seemed to have a mind of their own as they darted from me to Rick and Kathleen and back again. “May I introduce you to Olivia Ross?” He gestured toward me, and they seemed to notice me for the first time. “Olivia’s an old friend. Liv, this is Rick and Kathleen Boynes. Kathleen is one of the founding members of the Lakeside Society and on the board here at the Getty, if I’m not mistaken. And Rick married up and is the luckiest man alive.”
Rick laughed uproariously and Kathleen put her hand on Malcolm’s arm and said, “Oh, you!” I feigned a smile and shook their hands as Malcolm added, “Rick is also the senior partner at the firm.”
Why had I ever found him or any of this attractive? Even his The Way We Were hair annoyed me. How had it not changed at all in three years? How had he not changed at all in three years?
“Lovely to meet you, Olivia,” Kathleen said as her dainty little hand shook mine. “It’s nice to see Malcolm with a friend outside of the office.”
“Yes.” Rick laughed. “We didn’t know he had friends outside of the office.”
“We’re not friends,” I replied. “He paid one hundred thousand dollars to dance with me. That’s all.”
Malcolm laughed uncomfortably. “Well, technically I suppose Rick’s signing the check.”
Rick slapped him on the arm and joined in the laughter. “Money well spent!” And then with a wink he tagged on, “To support the Lakeside Society, I mean. See you on Monday, Larcraft. Don’t have too much fun.”
Plot Twist Page 12
