Laila shook her head at her friend’s suggestion. Working with Liberty was one thing, but living with her would be different. She knew Liberty would take her in, but she also sensed she wouldn’t appreciate having her in her space. Liberty was intensely private. So this left Laila in a bind.
“I would say you could crash with me,” Cece said. “But I have two roommates, and our couch is a love seat.” Cece lived on the far Upper West Side, right on the border of Harlem. Cece herself didn’t seem to spend much time there; it was more of a place to shower and sleep, to store one’s clothes. Life in New York was not a life of the home, except for the very rich. Laila wondered for a moment whether this should be her New York life instead of this facsimile of her cousins’ lives she was trying for. But strangely, Cece’s life—her perpetual single-dom, her career ambition, her flinty independence—seemed even more out of reach.
“I think I’ll probably just move in with Tom,” Laila said now, casually. “He’s been on me about it anyway.”
“Whoa! That’s kind of a big deal, though, right?” Cece said. Laila knew turning to a man would have been the last solution on her friend’s list.
The crowd around them had begun to thicken. They’d gotten there early—even with Cece’s connections, the door could be brutal. It was a quarter past eleven now, and people who didn’t have to be concerned with such things were filtering in. Laila felt a flash of recognition as a tall, boney blonde with impossibly shiny hair floated by her. For a moment she thought it was someone she knew, but then she realized that she knew her indeed—from the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
“Yeah,” Laila said, “I guess? I don’t know. I love Tom.”
The words were wooden on her tongue. I love Tom. Love Tom. Tom.
“Yeah, but . . .” Cece saw someone she knew, smiled, and held up a finger to say they’d be over in a minute. “That’s a huge step in a relationship.”
“I mean, I don’t know if I’d move in with him permanently. Just until I figure something else out. I don’t know.” Nothing had to be permanent, Laila knew. You could walk away from anything. No bond could imprison you unless you let it.
“Hey,” Cece said, putting her hand up, “no judgment. You do what you’ve gotta do.”
They joined Cece’s friends, who were mercifully generous with their bottle of Grey Goose. Laila drank hers on the rocks, no sugary mixer. Something Tom had said to her the other night was echoing in her mind: I love that you have curves; so many New York girls just starve them right off. How could he have thought this was a compliment? Laila knew she needed to appear to take it as one, but now it was haunting her. Twenty-five and curvy. In New York. Her window ever narrowing. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. Soon Laila was drunk, and the thoughts were floating away. Who cared about Tom? Look at her, look at her life! And Cece was her own friend, not out of pity, not out of obligation. And the city was theirs.
It was close to midnight when Cameron arrived. He’d texted his friend Jeremy, a banker, who’d said he’d be out that night. And of course he was here: there was nothing much else to do on a Monday night. He walked down into the strange room that was like a luminous, abandoned subway tunnel.
He sat, Jeremy clapping him on the back and reaching for a glass.
“The girls are drinking vodka, but I got a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for the gents,” he said proudly, clumsily pouring Cameron a too-full tumbler. Cameron vastly preferred Macallan but smiled gamely. Jeremy introduced him to the three model-looking girls at their table—Marcie? Mikela? Monica? He’d not heard the names the first time, and he’d never need to know them, so who cared?—then he saw her. The room was small, and she’d locked in on him already a moment earlier, flitting her eyes away so as to let him think he’d seen her first and decide what to do about it. And now he saw her, like a chimera, like a harbinger of doom.
He groaned softly. Of all the nights.
“Dude, your face. What?” Jeremy laughed; beneath it was desperation. He looked up to Cameron, wanted him to approve of the scotch he’d chosen, the girls he’d collected for his table. He wanted him to have fun.
“Oh, it’s just . . . Liberty’s cousin is here.”
Jeremy turned around unsubtly and looked in Laila’s direction; Laila laughed into her hand, gave them a little wave. Mercifully, she stayed put.
“She’s hot,” Jeremy said. An assessment.
“I’m aware.”
“Invite her over,” Jeremy said. Laila was short, a little heavier than he’d normally look at; a size 4 at least. But hey, whatever floated Cameron’s boat.
“Nah,” he said, “I’ll go say hi later. She’s kind of a climber.”
Jeremy shuddered, thinking his friend had said “clinger,” as in stage five. As in a woman who showed any desire to be attached to someone and therefore must be avoided at all costs.
After an hour, Cameron was drunk and having fun. He’d even stopped checking his phone to see if there was a message from Liberty. There was none, there would not be, for Liberty had fallen into a shattered and medicated sleep. She would never be in a place like this, Cameron thought, because she was dull. Dull. Dull. Dull. He was rich, he was the best-looking man he knew, and he was still young. Fuck Liberty. He could have anyone. He would have everyone.
Laila watched Cameron rise toward waking, then mumble, readjust, and bury himself back into a fitful, boozy sleep. It was nearly eight, and she was supposed to be at the agency at nine, but being on time was the last thing on her mind. When she was certain he was asleep once again, she crept out of bed to explore. If he asked, she could say she’d gone in search of a glass of water.
The town house was three stories, with Cameron’s bedroom on the top floor opening up onto its own small terrace. The middle floor was an entertainment room full of sleek electronics with plugs that disappeared discreetly into the walls and floor. There were an additional two rooms here: one a guest bedroom, one an office, a bathroom between them with an elegant claw-foot tub.
The bottom floor was a large open kitchen with gleaming marble countertops, an attached dining room, and French doors that opened onto a secluded, enclosed patio. Laila flashed to an image of herself carrying a tray of drinks out to waiting friends on a summer afternoon. Perfection.
She thought of Tom’s Gramercy apartment with its terrible carpet in the sitting room (why had he not had it torn up yet?), the decades-old grime that had buried itself between the tiles in the shower, the dust that collected on all the piles of books and papers—dust that was dislodged by Tom’s occasional attempts at tidying but not actually dealt with. (And why didn’t he hire a maid? Surely he could afford it.) Cameron had twice as many books lining the walls in beautifully built-in shelves, and seemingly not a speck of dust. As Laila made her way toward the glass-paned French doors that opened out onto the patio, she shook off the memories of the other man, who was of course not a memory at all but very much a presence. Were she to check her phone at that moment, she would see she had five text messages and two voice mails from Tom trying to determine her whereabouts. This was not because he was alarmed at not being able to get ahold of her but was simply their usual pattern. He could not go more than a few waking hours without reaching out to her, and she routinely took her time replying. Of course it made him want her more, and of course she played this hand. The weak winter sunshine filtered into the frost-covered courtyard, making it sparkle. Laila felt the rightness of it settle on her: this was where she was meant to go next.
When Cameron woke in bed, he felt a momentary panic that he would not be alone. When he looked to his side and saw no one, he let out a deep sigh of relief. He felt as though all the water had been leached from his body; he could feel his brain contracting, his organs shifting and twisting, his skin parched and tight, his whole body in a rage at him for poisoning it. Why had he drunk so much? But of course he knew why. Liberty had rejected him. The prince had deigned to love, and his love had been denied. And then Laila. Oh God, had
he? She was not here, so perhaps he had not. Perhaps the sweaty memories of his hand in her flaming hair, of his tongue tracing the inside of her thigh, had all been dreamed? He had especially vivid dreams sometimes, so it could be. And she was not here. She was not here. He looked at his bedside alarm clock: eight fifteen. He would be late to work. No one would care.
Presently he heard soft footsteps on the narrow staircase and sat up straight. She appeared on the landing of the wide-open space, wearing the collared shirt he’d discarded on the floor the night before. She was tiny, and it went practically to her knees. With her makeup worn away by sleep and sex, she looked like a little girl standing there holding her glass of water. She seemed surprised to find him awake.
“I hope it’s okay,” she said, curling the fingers of her free hand around the cuff of the shirt, “I was dying of thirst.”
“It’s fine,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face to hide his annoyance that she was here. He detested waking up with a stranger in his bed. There were plenty of night visitors, but he was diligent about getting them to leave before the morning. Of course, Laila was not a stranger; so much the worse. When he pulled his head up, she’d walked to the edge of the bed and, tossing her mussed hair over her shoulder, teased at the top button of the shirt. She wanted more of him. Cameron felt an unexpected stab of pity for her. He would have to tread carefully.
“I would love to,” he said, taking her hand. “You are so supremely hot. But I am going to be late as it is.”
She sat down next to him and stuck her bottom lip out. “We could be quick. . . .”
He felt himself recoil not at the idea of having sex with Laila again—this idea stirred him more than he would have liked—but at something dark and desperate that lashed across Laila’s green eyes.
“Listen,” he said, ignoring the come-on. Now he knew he must be tender with her, must get her on his side. “Last night was sublime. But . . .” No sooner was that word out of his mouth than Laila’s entire demeanor shifted, a strange and chilling smile coming onto her lips.
“Liberty,” she said, spat really, as though the tumble of consonants that was her cousin’s name bruised her tongue.
“Yes,” Cameron said. So at least they were on the same page.
“But I’ve been led to believe—by both of you now—that there is nothing romantic going on. So . . . what’s the issue?”
“It’s complicated.” The very last thing Cameron wanted to do was discuss his relationship—fragile, uncertain thing that it was—with this woman who, he now saw without question, presented a threat. For in the light of day, he wanted nothing more than Liberty. She was so beautiful, so intelligent, so pristine. He would see her as soon as possible and find a way to get them past the previous night.
“Anyway, I’d imagine you’d want to be discreet as well. You know I have the utmost respect for Tom; he is a brilliant man.”
He, thought Laila bitterly, is a brilliant man who managed to have an oddly feminine and pudgy physique despite his skinniness. He was a man whose freezer was crammed with sad Stouffer’s meals for one. But for now, Laila needed him, so she smiled and agreed with Cameron. “I love Tom. And it was never a question of me being discreet. I love Liberty too, you know. I would never do anything to hurt her. If I’d known that you were involved, I never would have . . .”
And with this she had the ammunition. She could feign innocence. It was all Cameron could do not to throw himself at her mercy, but he knew that would only weaken his position. “So we’re agreed,” he said, standing up, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I’ve got to be off, but make yourself comfortable.” Comfortable, not at home, anything but that. “The door will lock behind you.”
He disappeared into the vast white tile of the bathroom. Laila heard the click of the lock and heard the shower come on. She hurried out, not wanting to be there when he emerged. She needed to regroup.
Liberty awoke feeling shaky. As she walked gingerly around her apartment on Bambi legs, she debated not going to the office. But yes, she would; solitude was not the answer for today, distraction was. If she stayed here, the memory of the kiss, of her slamming the door in Cameron’s face and crumpling against it, would loop endlessly in her mind. The walls would close in on her. She needed the armor of her competence today, the anchoring force of her work.
It was a busy morning, so busy she only tangentially noticed how sulky Laila was.
“Do you want to have a drink downstairs after work today?” she said to her as she sat desultory in her tiny side office, sorting the piles of mail. It was shocking how many people sent the agency their full, weighty manuscripts—sometimes bound with makeshift cover designs on the front—despite the explicit directions on the website not to do so. These hopefuls seemed under the wrongheaded impression that making their work physically harder to dispose of might make it harder to disregard. Laila perked up at the invitation. “Sure!”
“Great,” Liberty, said. It was a tonic to be needed by Laila. “Thanks for taking the mail pile. I know it’s not the most fun.”
“Oh, to the contrary.” Laila smiled. “At least five writers this morning have promised they have the next Da Vinci Code for us, so we’re all going to be very rich, very soon.”
“No next Harry Potters this morning?”
“Not yet, but I’m barely a third of the way in.”
Liberty laughed. “Well, keep fighting the good fight in there.”
Liberty was working through lunch, picking at a rather uninspiring salad that Kim had fetched for her from the deli below, when the girl arrived at her door carrying a bouquet of purple and white dahlias.
“These came for you.” Kim smiled.
A great warmth came over Liberty. She feared checking the card, in case she was wrong—though she knew she wasn’t. She recalled the slow, silly back-and-forth they’d had not long ago.
I want to know everything about you—all the details.
Such as?
Favorite color?
Purple.
Favorite ice-cream flavor?
Mint chocolate chip.
Classic. Favorite flower?
Dahlias.
And these were perfect, with their short stems in a square vase. The card was perfect too, simple, saying I’m thinking of you . . . —C.
So, her little freak-out had not ruined everything? Deep down, she knew that if it had, he would not be the man for her. She knew that she needed someone who could see all of her—who would not simply be looking for her competent, organized, undemanding proxy—but she kept hoping perhaps she could simply cure herself of the maladies before anyone saw them.
Laila had seen the flowers, floating to Liberty’s office in Kim’s hands. They could have been from anyone; it wasn’t unusual for Liberty to get flowers from a grateful client for whom she’d landed a deal. But as Laila peered around Liberty’s door and caught the look on her face, she had no doubt whom they were from.
“Lovely flowers,” she said with a careful smile.
Liberty looked up at her with watery eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . they’re from Cameron.”
Even though she already knew, it stung. She was gripped by a visceral memory of his broad shoulders vast above her as he moved inside her. “They’re gorgeous,” Laila said, her voice too loud, and Liberty laughed.
“Aren’t they?”
After work they headed to a nearby dimly lit bar with the curious name of Dear Irving. Laila pressed her about Cameron.
“So, not to pry, but I thought things weren’t romantic between you and Cameron.”
Laila knew it was her moment to ask; Liberty was practically bursting to talk about it.
“Well, they aren’t. I mean, I don’t know what they are. He kissed me last night.” It was as though the words came out before she could stop them. She’d never looked so girlish.
“And?” Laila plastered an intere
sted smile on her face to disguise her dismay at the fact that she’d been the night’s consolation prize. Even more surprising was the flash of guilt that struck her. Had she unwittingly betrayed her cousin? Or had it not been unwitting at all?
“Well, that’s the problem, I kind of slammed the door in his face. Oh, Laila, it’s a mess, to be honest.”
“Why did you send him away if you have feelings for him? Poor Cameron!”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. I don’t do well with relationships sometimes.”
Laila examined her cousin; she’d never seen her like this: nervous, hopeful, vulnerable.
“Why’s that?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just afraid of losing my independence.” Her smile said otherwise, and suddenly Laila saw something she’d never noticed about her cousin: what appeared to be self-containment was actually a deep sadness. Something had happened to her. In many ways she was the opposite of her siblings, those two spoiled, emotionally weightless beings.
“Well, with the right man,” Laila said, “you won’t have to.”
“Anyway. I can’t believe he sent me flowers. And my favorite ones.”
“He wanted to make it up to you,” Laila said.
Liberty looked at her strangely for a moment, and Laila panicked.
“I mean, he must have known you were upset last night.”
She nodded. Laila was reassured that only she could see what tainted the expensive blooms, their stems elegantly coiled to suit their geometric vase: guilt. Laila deftly changed the subject.
“So, what do you hear from our grandfather, anything?” She could not bring herself to refer to him—this shadowy man who seemed so likely to reject her—by her cousins’ familiar moniker, Opa. She wasn’t entirely certain what he was to her, but he certainly wasn’t anything so sweet as her opa.
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