She Regrets Nothing

by Andrea Dunlop

  “Yeah, at first,” Cece said, “he just seemed like a dreamboat. He was so interested in my career; he seemed like he really believed in me. It was so different than all these dudes that just want arm candy. I was,” she shook her head and sighed, “a goner from the word go.”

  “Excuse me, ladies?”

  Laila and Cece had been so absorbed in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the pair approaching—Italian suits, glinting cufflinks, bankers almost certainly—and now they were trapped. They looked up warily. This was, of course, a routine they’d seen before. Send the drinks first, ensuring if not a warm welcome, at least an obligatory one.

  “Enjoying the champagne?”

  “Yes,” Cece said, raising her glass. “Uh, thank you. That was . . . nice of you.”

  “I just have to ask,” said the other, stepping forward to peer at Cece, “where are you from?”

  Laila could see Cece stifling an eye roll. “I grew up in the Bronx.”

  “No, but, like, where are you from?” he said.

  “You’re asking about my ethnicity?”

  “Yeah!” he said, oblivious to her tone. “You’re just so . . . exotic-looking.”

  “My parents are Dominican,” Cece said flatly. “Thanks so much for asking.”

  “Gorgeous,” exclaimed the other, equally tone-deaf.

  “Where are you from?” Laila asked sweetly.

  “Upper East Side,” said the first, “and my boy Brad here is from Boston. Have you met Brad?”

  “I met Chad here at Harvard,” Brad said. “Have you met Chad?”

  “Harvard, huh?” Cece said. “Humph, never heard of it!”

  “So, Upper East Side and Boston. Brookline, maybe?” Laila continued.

  He touched his nose like, You got it. And they both nodded smugly.

  “So, they don’t teach you any manners there, or what?”

  “Oh, Laila,” Cece said, “don’t be harsh! Maybe they’ve just never seen a brown person before.”

  With that Brad and Chad got the message. They turned on their heels, muttering under their breath, “Bitches.” And, “Not even that hot.”

  “Okay,” Laila said, downing the rest of her cocktail and turning to the hard-earned glass of champagne. “Brad and Chad, is that even real?”

  “That could only be real,” Cece said. “So, the moral of the story?”

  “Guys are douchebags?”

  “Ye-ah. But if you find a diamond among the douchebags, give him a shot.”

  “Cece,” Laila said, “that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  Blake’s message buoyed Laila temporarily until, for no good reason, she slipped back into a funk and by the following evening, she had convinced herself that she’d never see him again. She reasoned with herself that if he was in fact ghosting her, at least it would save her any accompanying Nora drama. There were always other men, thousands of them teeming through the streets of the city; they couldn’t all be Chads and Brads. But something about Blake had sunk its hooks into Laila. The effort of trying not to think about him wore her out. And so it went until three days later, he called.

  “I wish I had the whole weekend free to spend in bed with you,” he said, “but I have a couple of boring dinners with potential advertisers for the paper that I need to woo.”

  “Oh well, I know it’s a crucial time for you with the business.” Laila thought she might pass out from disappointment.

  “It is,” he said, “which is why it would be so amazing to have my favorite beautiful, brilliant sidekick with me. What do you say? It would really help me out.”

  She swooned. He saw them just as she did: more powerful together.

  Laila spent the next two weeks at his side: going to parties where you tripped over celebrities and supermodels, eating at restaurants so new and hot even the twins hadn’t heard of them, and attending parties and fund-raisers shored up by money new and old, held everywhere from burned-out loft spaces in Dumbo to the National Arts Club.

  As it happened, Blake’s social circle did not cross over with the twins’ as much as Laila had feared. Blake had left behind much of the prep school circle the twins still spent their time with, especially all the young dilettantes Leo favored. Nora, in the meantime, was busy with her new boyfriend, Larry. Nora had at last grown lonely enough to give in to Larry’s affections. He sent her flowers every week. He brought her a bracelet from Tiffany on their third date: a silver cuff of interwoven olive leaves that Nora now wore nearly every day. He showered her not only with gifts but with effusive compliments: being near the two of them (he would always come to the door to fetch Nora for their dates) was nauseating, for it meant listening to Larry gush about how unbelievably beautiful Nora was. Larry himself was homely, albeit in a rather endearing way with a large, goofy smile and bushy, expressive eyebrows. He did have the benefit of being tall, which always made men seem a bit less ridiculous than they might otherwise.

  Nora was happy, and Laila was glad. If she was engulfed by a new love, then perhaps she would forgive Laila for Blake. And it would be such a relief to leave that bridge intact.

  After two weeks of nonstop togetherness, Blake left for a series of meetings in London, where several of the paper’s other investors lived—leaving Laila feeling distracted and unmoored. She was no romantic, but she felt a certain rightness when she was with him: she would look at him—so handsome, so well dressed, so innocent—and feel a calm settle on her that she was in exactly the place she should be. Was this what others meant when they said they were in love? For Laila realized that though she’d spoken the words numerous times—what else was there to do once a man said it to you?—the voice, No, no, no, had always been there, and eventually it screamed loud enough to untether her. But with Blake this voice was nowhere to be found.

  It did not help that given the time difference and how busy he was in London, Blake was only able to send her the occasional e-mail, and she felt the loss of his physical presence keenly: his voice, his hands, the comfort of him inside her.

  One night she sat at home attempting to read: her idea of what the kind of girlfriend she wanted to be would do while her boyfriend was traveling. She’d pictured herself thusly that day: soup from the deli taken to go, one glass of wine from the bottle of sauvignon blanc Nora had opened the night before, and then a couple of hours redoubling her efforts to love the literature that she was always claiming to adore. She was several chapters into East of Eden, and my God, it was slow. Liberty’s mind must be equipped with some preternatural patience to love these sorts of books. Before long, Laila was itching not to be sitting there alone. Nora’s side of the penthouse was empty, and who knew if Leo was home. Laila couldn’t fathom how to be by herself here, how to be still. The chaos of the city pulsed just beyond the walls; how could she resist it?

  After an hour and the first two glasses of the sav blanc, she gave in and called Cece, who was at a regular haunt of hers on the Lower East Side. She knew she’d been neglecting her friend a bit since she’d met Blake and was relieved that she seemed not to bear her any grudge. They made their way through their usual series of bars on the Lower East Side until they ended up, somewhere after midnight, at the Box—a trendy, vaudeville-style club on Chrystie Street. Laila had heard of it, but this was her first time inside.

  “My God,” she said to Cece, as they stepped into the jewel-box theater that looked straight out of the nineteenth century, “this place is amazing.”

  “Yeah, it’s a cool aesthetic. You have to be in the right mood for it, though,” Cece said enigmatically.

  Laila was too stimulated to play it cool and couldn’t help but scan the tables along the walls. The Gatsbyesque atmosphere had the usual bankers and glittering beauties, the recognizable faces of a model or actor popping out at her every so often.

  “Oh God,” Laila said to Cece, turning abruptly.

  “What?” she said, letting Laila adjust their course.

  “It’s
Simon, that billionaire guy.”

  “Ruh-roh, the one from Mustique?” Cece asked, her voice light. But then she hadn’t seen the look Simon had just given Laila; he’d spotted her first, and so when her eyes fell on him, his face was already fixed in a hideous glare. He seemed every inch the kind of man that would hold a grudge.

  “Cece, maybe we should go somewhere else,” Laila said. Cece was distracted, on the lookout for the friends they were supposed to be meeting.

  “Don’t be silly. He doesn’t own the nightclub, does he?”

  Laila stopped short. He’d mentioned something about investing in nightclubs, but did he say which?

  “Well, I don’t think so. Maybe, though.”

  She laughed as if Laila was talking nonsense. They’d both already had plenty to drink. “He’s not going to do anything. Come on!”

  Laila was several more drinks in when her phone trilled a message. She attempted to be discreet as she looked at it so as not to offend the men they had joined at a table near the stage of the ornate theater, and also because cell phones were technically not allowed inside.

  Where are you? I want you.

  The message was from Cameron. Laila nearly laughed at the audacity of his message. Of course he wanted her now. Now that Laila was otherwise occupied with a new man in her life, it would follow that he would suddenly find her irresistible.

  The friend of Cece’s who had invited them to their table was a photographer, devastatingly handsome. From the look on Cece’s face, as they talked with their heads together, Laila suspected that she would go home with him, maybe not for the first time. The two other men at the table had been polite enough when introduced but were now ignoring Laila. She knew it should mean nothing to her that they had their attentions so clearly tuned to the gorgeous teenage-looking models floating by, and yet it did. New York was a place where one didn’t have to look far to feel diminished, to be made invisible.

  I’m at the Box, she texted back, catching a show. Anyway you can’t have me. So there.

  This was perfect, she thought, for she had Blake now and could simply reject Cameron; she would have this final word, this upper hand. And still, what was that stirring? That twitch at the center of her. Maybe she shouldn’t have left the penthouse. But here she was: already a little drunk, her senses submerged in this flashy, nightmarish, beautiful room. No one was paying attention to her, so no one noticed that her champagne glass was empty. She was seated on the outside of the booth and reached over to grab the bottle out of the ice bucket and refilled her own. The other men got up from the table—a hunting party of two—and Cece and her friend were making out. Laila quickly drank her glass then refilled it again. The lights went down, and a tall, shirtless man with a tattooed and chiseled torso appeared onstage. He wore heavy makeup, and his bleached blond hair was spiked into devil horns. “Welcome to the Box! Theater of oddities and delights!”

  It was somewhere soon thereafter that Laila lost the thread. The rest of the night came back to her only in flashes the next day. Cameron had appeared and sat beside her in the booth. Something bloomed inside her at his presence. He had chased her down; he was with her in public. Blake was not there to want her, and this had left a void, a need in Laila to be wanted by someone. After that, she only absorbed pieces of the show: flashes of naked bodies; the midget; the fat woman. There were contortionists and a scantily clad acrobat dangling above them. And all the while, Cameron was pouring her more champagne and keeping a steady hand between her legs. Only one moment was crystal clear: as she shook from an impending orgasm, he pinched the inside of her thigh and leaned over to whisper, “I own you, do not forget that.” They’d eventually decamped to a dark corner by the bathrooms on the lower floor, where Cameron pinned Laila up against a wall. Then, having gotten what he came for, he’d left. It was all too easy the next day to pretend that none of it had really happened. But, of course, it had.

  Several days later when Blake at last returned, Laila made the trip out to surprise him at JFK. She spotted him before he saw her. He was wearing a tight gray T-shirt and had a smart Tumi carry-on slung over his broad shoulders. She’d been about to stand on tiptoes and wave frantically at him so that he’d see her, but she held back for a minute, suddenly awed by the sight of him. He didn’t look like he could possibly be there to meet her, like he could be her real boyfriend; he looked like the television actor hired to play him. He walked right by her, and she momentarily worried that he wasn’t actually there to see her; that she was going to watch him get enveloped in the arms of some other woman.

  “Blake!” she shouted. He turned at the sound of his name and glanced over his shoulder, his face lighting up when he saw her.

  “Laila! You’re here!” He pulled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet exactly the way she’d dreamed he would.

  “Since when do New Yorkers pick each other up at the airport?”

  “I decided to make an exception,” she said, almost unable to breathe as the smell of him washed over her. She suddenly wondered if she’d overshot by coming all the way out here. But no, he looked so happy to see her that she knew it had been the right thing to do.

  In the cab on the way back to the city, she sat nestled against him; it was like some long-held but unspoken dream had materialized beside her. Unwelcome thoughts of Cameron suddenly bombarded her. Blake was drawn to the part of Laila that was good, but perhaps she needed Cameron in order to be that good woman; perhaps her demons needed someone else to absorb them. Could this be what they were to each other? A receptacle for each other’s worst selves so they could be otherwise loving and loyal to their better halves? There was a twisted logic to it that held. Perhaps rather than betraying Liberty, she was protecting her from the side of Cameron that she undoubtedly didn’t want to see. For if she wanted to see it, she would have: after all, Laila had seen it right away, could see it flashing in his eyes as he looked her over that first night; something there that couldn’t be hidden by any amount of gloss and polish, and Cameron had plenty of both. And Cameron had seen her too, beneath the naive midwestern veneer. And what a thrill it was to be seen, to be recognized by your same animal.

  Perhaps, it occurred to her, there was no natural end to this quartet: perhaps they were four legs of a table. But even in that moment, cuddled next to her better half, Laila knew she was fooling herself. It was all too beautiful to last.

  21

  * * *

  SEXY NEW COUPLE HITS MONTAUK HOT SPOT

  Saturday, June 1st

  Blake Katz was seen at Surf Lodge Friday night with Laila Lawrence. “The two have been quietly dating for some time. They’re crazy about each other,” a source close to the couple tells us. The gorgeous redhead originally hails from Michigan and is the granddaughter of real estate mogul Frederick Lawrence. They reportedly spent the weekend in Katz’s $5.7-million beachside home.

  “This is a disaster,” Laila said to Blake the next morning as she read the article aloud to him at the breakfast nook in Montauk.

  “Wow,” he said, biting into an apple, having just returned from a few hours of early-morning surfing, “I didn’t think you’d be so shy about being in the press! You’re so cute!”

  Cece had texted her that morning: Girl, check Page Six, you’re famous

  “It’s not that,” Laila said, “ugh, I should have told you this before.” He looked at her questioningly. Laila let out a deep sigh. “Nora has—had, anyway—a huge crush on you. So I kinda haven’t told her we’re dating.”

  “Where does she think you’ve been spending all your time lately?” He looked amused.

  “Well, she knows I’m seeing someone. I told her I had a new guy named . . . Jake.”

  “Jake, huh? Sneaky.” His eyes sparkled with laughter, and for a moment, his levity calmed her. If he wasn’t taking it seriously, perhaps there was nothing to be concerned about. But Blake didn’t know Nora like she did.

  “Don’t laugh! I’m worried. I don’t want her to hate me.
”

  “Come here,” he said, pulling Laila up out of her chair and into his arms. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. And doesn’t Nora have a boyfriend?”

  “Larry.”

  “Larry! Well, I’m sure she’s over her crush. Why don’t you just talk it out when you get home?”

  “Blake, you don’t understand. This is bad. What if she kicks me out?”

  “I think you’re overreacting.” Laila was not so sure. “But if she does, you’ll come live with me.”

  “Blake, stop.”

  “I’m serious, how great would that be? Anyway, just talk to her; it’s not as though she and I have a history. How mad could she possibly be?”

  When Laila returned to the city, Nora was not at the penthouse.

  Hey! Want to grab dinner tonight? Maybe order in?

  Laila’s cheerful text received no reply, the first harbinger of her cousin’s fury. Nora always carried her phone with her, always looked at it, and always responded immediately—her hunger for connection forever churning.

  And so Laila was forced to pace the floors of the penthouse waiting for her cousin’s return. The air-conditioning was frigid, and Laila alternated between the living room and the patio, unable to get comfortable, waiting and wondering. She resisted the urge to text her cousin again, attempting to calmly maintain her vigil. At last, around nine o’clock, Nora appeared.

  “Hey, honey!” Laila said, pretending to ignore the cloud of foreboding that seemed to waft around her cousin as she entered the room. “There you are! How was your weekend? Did you and Larry have fun in East?” Larry owned a house in East Hampton with a swimming pool and tennis courts.

  Nora didn’t look at her but instead smiled menacingly in the direction of the floor.

  “I had a lovely weekend, thanks so much for asking. And you? How was your weekend? With, oh, what was his name? Jake, is it?”

  Laila’s stomach turned. Of course she’d read it: gossip traveled like a lit fuse in New York—and Nora never missed an update. And of course she was furious.