by Susan Wiggs
The expression was fairly descriptive of what the job entailed. In the service of people seeking to display their property at its best, Olivia was a master of illusion. An artist of deception. Making a property look irresistible was usually a simple, low-cost process, incorporating elements the seller already owned, but combining them in different ways.
She loved her job and did it well, and her reputation was growing accordingly. In some parts of Manhattan, agents would not even consider listing a property until it had been fluffed by Olivia Bellamy of Transformations. The job was not without its challenges, though. Since she’d launched her own firm, Olivia had learned that there was a lot more to property staging than weeding the flower beds, painting everything white and turning on the bread-making machine.
Still, a project the size of Kioga was not in the realm of her expertise.
“You’re talking about a hundred acres of wilderness, a hundred fifty miles from here. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I would.” Jane pushed an old-fashioned, leather-bound photo album across the table to her. “Everyone has a notion of summer camp in their mind, whether or not they even went to camp. All you have to do is create that illusion once again. Here are some pictures taken through the years to get you started.”
The photos were, for the most part, classic views of rustic cabins clustered on the shores of a lake in a pristine forest. Olivia had to admit that there was something both peaceful and evocative about the place. Nana was right about the illusion—or maybe it was a delusion. Olivia had had a terrible time at summer camp. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, there lived an idealized summer place, free of taunting children, sunburns and mosquitoes.
Her imagination kicked in, as it always did when she viewed a property. Despite her reluctance, she almost immediately started seeing ways to dress it up.
Stop it, she told herself.
“I don’t exactly have the best memories of my summers there,” she reminded her grandmother.
“I know, dear. But this summer could be your opportunity to exorcize those demons. Create new memories.”
Interesting. Olivia hadn’t realized her grandmother had known about her suffering. Why didn’t you stop it? she wanted to ask.
“This project could take the entire summer. I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”
Nana lifted an eyebrow, high over the rim of her glasses. “Why?”
Olivia couldn’t keep it in any longer. Her excitement spilled out, along with her next words. “Because I think I have a reason to stay.”
“That reason being a Brad Pitt look-alike with a Harvard law degree?”
Deep breath, Olivia, she cautioned herself. You’ve been here before, and you’ve been disappointed. Take it easy. She couldn’t, of course. She nearly came out of her seat as she said, “I think Rand Whitney is going to ask me to marry him.”
Nana took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Oh, my dear, darling Olivia.” She used her napkin to dab her eyes.
Olivia was glad she had decided to tell Nana. There were some in her family who would react with more skepticism. Some—her mother being one of these—would be quick to remind her that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Olivia already had two failed engagements under her belt.
As if she could ever forget.
She pushed aside the thought and added, “He’s selling his apartment downtown. It’s my latest project, in fact. I need to check on the finishing touches this afternoon because it’s going on the market tomorrow. When he gets home from the airport, I’ll be there, waiting for him. He’s been in L.A. all week at the West Coast office of his firm. He said when he gets back, he’s going to ask me.”
“To marry him.”
“I assume so.” Olivia felt the slightest flicker of unease. He hadn’t actually said that.
“So selling his place is a good thing.”
Olivia felt herself smiling all over. “He’s looking at properties on Long Island.”
“Oh, my. The man is ready to settle down.”
Olivia’s grin widened. “So you’ll understand…I need to think about your offer.”
“Certainly, dear.” She signaled for the check with a familiar, regal gesture that never failed to bring a white-gloved waiter scurrying. “I hope it all turns out perfectly for you.”
As she hurried up the stairs to Rand’s apartment near Gramercy Park, Olivia felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Here she was, enjoying the rare privilege of setting the scene for her own engagement, right down to the last detail. When Randall Whitney asked her to marry him, he would do so in a place created by her own imagination and hard work. So often in these situations, it was the job of the gentleman to create the proper ambience, and so often, he failed.
Not this time, Olivia thought, enjoying a delicious tingle of excitement. This time, everything would be just right.
Unlike the other times. With Pierce, the engagement had been doomed from the start by something Olivia refused to acknowledge until she discovered him taking a shower with another girl. With Richard, the moment of humiliation had come when she’d caught him using her ATM card to steal from her. Two strikes had left her doubting her own judgment…until Rand. This time, she wouldn’t get it wrong.
She opened the front door, turned and pictured the way the apartment would look through Rand’s eyes. Perfect, that’s how, she thought. The place was the epitome of contemporary luxury, clean but not fussed over (even though she had fussed over every little thing for days), tasteful but not decorated (even though she had planned it obsessively).
In the taxi ride from midtown, Olivia had gone over and over the scenario in her mind until she was nearly giddy with anticipation. In less than an hour, Rand would come through the door and step into this ideal setting. He probably wouldn’t go down on one knee; that wasn’t his style. Instead, he’d wear that raffish, have-I-got-a-deal-for-you grin as he reached into his jacket for the gleaming black box with the emerald-shaped logo of Harry Winston. Rand was a Whitney, after all. There were perks.
Forcing herself to move with attractive dignity, she paused at the sideboard and checked the angle of the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. The label didn’t need to be turned all the way out. Any practiced eye could pick out the mark of Dom Perignon, just from the silhouette.
She spared only a glance—half a glance—into the mirror above the sideboard, which was actually a tansu chest she’d rented from a furniture warehouse. Mirrors were important in her line of work, not for studying one’s reflection, but for creating light and dimension and ambience in a room, and for checking—oh so briefly—one’s teeth for lipstick. Anything more than that was a waste of time.
Then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the reflection. Even as a scream erupted from her, she grabbed the Dom Perignon by the neck of the bottle and swung around, ready to do battle.
“I always did want to split a bottle of bubbly with you, darling,” said Freddy Delgado, “but maybe you should let me do the honors.”
Her best friend, incongruously good-looking even in a borrowed apron and holding a feather duster, strode across the room and took the bottle from her.
She snatched it back and shoved it into the ice bucket. “What are you doing here?”
“Just finishing up. I got a key from your office and came right over.”
Her “office” was a corner of the sitting room in her apartment, which was even farther downtown. Freddy had his own keys to her place, but this was the first time he’d abused the privilege. He removed the apron. Underneath, he was wearing cargo pants, Wolverine workboots and a tight Spamalot T-shirt. His stylishly cut hair was tipped with white-blond highlights. Freddy was a theater-set designer and aspiring actor. He was also single, well-spoken, and he dressed with exquisite taste. All reasons to suppose he was gay. But he wasn’t. Just lonely.
“I get it. You’ve lost your job again.” She grabbed a cloth from his back pocket and dried the water spots from
the spilled ice.
“How did you guess?”
“You’re working for me. You only work for me when there’s no better gig around.” Scanning the apartment, she couldn’t help but notice he’d done a stellar job putting the finishing details on her design work. He always did. She wondered if their friendship would change after she got married. Rand had never liked Freddy, and the feeling was mutual. She hated it that loyalty to one felt like betrayal to the other.
“The funding fell through for the show I was working on. I hate when that happens.” Although he was a talented set designer, Freddy tended to get hired by shows with thin-to-nonexistent financing, and he often found himself abruptly out of a job. Fortunately for Olivia, he was a world-class builder, painter and all-around creative talent. “By the way,” he said, charming her with a smile. “You really outdid yourself with this place. It looks like a million bucks.”
“One point two million, to be exact.”
He gave a low whistle. “Ambitious. Oops, cobweb.” He went to the built-in media shelves and fluffed at a high corner with his feather duster. “And oops again,” he added. “I almost missed this.”
“Missed what?”
“The DVD collection.”
The slender cases and boxed sets were lined up neatly on the shelf. “What about it?” she asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You’ll never sell this place with Moulin Rouge in full view.”
“Hey, I liked that movie. Lots of people liked that movie.”
Freddy was a movie buff. A major, annoying-to-the-point-of-snobbery movie-trivia champ. If it had been put on celluloid, Freddy had seen it and probably memorized it, too. He made short work of the DVD shelf, tucking Moulin Rouge into a drawer, along with Phantom of the Opera and Ready To Wear. “They’re turnoffs,” he said. “Nobody wants to make a deal with a guy who watches dreck like that.” He squatted down and peered into a cupboard where the rest of the movies were stored. “Aha. This is much better,” he said.
“Night Nurses From Vegas?” Olivia asked. “Flight of the Penis? No way. You’re not putting porn out where people can see it.”
“Spine out,” Freddy insisted. “It’s subtle, but it says the seller is just a regular guy who doesn’t put on airs. What are you doing dating a guy who watches porn, anyway?”
The discs had been party favors from a bachelor party, but she didn’t feel like explaining that to Freddy. She smiled mysteriously and said, “Who says Rand is the one watching porn?”
“Give me a break.”
“I am,” she said, “whether I like it or not. Next time you decide to get back on the payroll, clear it with me.”
“You would have said yes.” He jammed the handle of the feather duster into his back pocket. “You always say yes. That’s another reason I’m here.”
“I don’t get it.”
His customary sunny smile disappeared. He fixed his sincere, brown-eyed gaze on Olivia and sank to one knee before her. Reaching into his apron pocket, he drew out a small black box. “Olivia. I have something to ask you.”
“Oh, please. Is this a joke?” She laughed, but there was an intensity in his gaze that unsettled her.
“I’m deadly serious.”
“Then get up. I can’t take you seriously at all when you’re on the floor like that.”
“Fine. Whatever you like.” With a long-suffering sigh, he stood up and opened the jewel box. Inside lay a pair of silver earrings. From one dangled the letter N and from the other, O. “A friendly reminder to just say no.”
“Come on, Freddy.” She gave him a playful shove. “You’ve had a problem with Rand from day one. I wish you’d get over that.”
“I’m begging you, Livvy. Don’t marry him.” He swept her dramatically into his arms. “Come away with me instead.”
“You’re unemployed.” She pushed away from him.
“Not so. I have the best employer in the city—you. And he’s late, isn’t he? The scoundrel. What sort of man shows up late to pop the question?”
“A man who’s stuck in rush-hour traffic from the airport.” Olivia went to the window and looked down—way down—at the avenue, so crammed with taxis that it resembled a river of yellow sludge. “And nobody says scoundrel anymore. Don’t write him off just yet, Freddy.”
“Sorry, you’re right. Bad, Freddy. Bad.” He made a self-flagellating motion. “It’s just that I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Again. He didn’t say so aloud, but the word hovered in the brief silence between them.
“I’m fine,” Olivia said. “Rand is nothing like—” She struggled to quell the emotional flurry in her gut. “No. I won’t say it. I won’t mention them in the same breath.”
She physically shook herself. Don’t go there. The trouble was, there was here. She couldn’t escape her own life. The fact that she had been engaged and dumped twice before was as much a part of her as her gray eyes, her size-seven feet. In her circle of friends, her ill luck with men was something people joked about, like in the old days, when they used to joke about Olivia’s weight. And just like in the old days, she laughed right along with them, bleeding inside.
“Smart girl,” Freddy said. “Rand Whitney is his own brand of disaster, unlike any other.”
“Oh, now you’re being melodramatic.”
“He’s all wrong for you, sweetheart.”
“You know what?” she said. “I don’t need this. You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. You didn’t hire me in the first place.”
She tapped her foot. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get you to leave.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get you to dump Rand.”
They glared at each other, and the strain on their friendship thrummed between them. They’d met as seniors at Columbia, and had been best friends ever since. They’d even gotten matching tattoos one night before graduation, sipping liquid courage from a bottle of Southern Comfort while Jorge, the tattoo artist, created a butterfly in the small of each of their backs, a blue one for Freddy and a pink one for Olivia. Freddy had never known the old, fat, miserable Olivia. He believed she had always been fabulous. It was one of her favorite things about him.
Muttering warnings and dire predictions under his breath, he handed over his apron and duster and left. Olivia stowed the cleaning supplies, took out her cell phone and checked her messages. The least Rand could do was let her know if he was going to be late. Of course, if he was on a plane, he couldn’t very well do that, could he?
She could always call the airline, check his flight status, but she didn’t know his airline or flight number. What kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s flight number? A busy one, she thought. One who’s used to having a boyfriend who travels half the time. He’d be here any minute, she told herself. She slipped a hand into her pocket and fingered the silly earrings Freddy had given her. What did Freddy know? This was right. She was ready to settle down with Rand, to make a life, have babies. The urge was so palpable that her stomach clenched.
Turning in a slow circle to survey the apartment, she felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. It was remarkable, she mused, the way minor details could matter so much, the way a shade of color or angle of light could set a mood. These things had a huge impact on buyers. A property that had been skillfully staged nearly always fetched a higher price.
Many people scratched their heads, claiming they didn’t know why there should be a pair of flip-flops haphazardly parked by the shower, or why a well-thumbed paperback copy of A Man In Full should be open and placed facedown on a nightstand. Olivia did, though. It had nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with human nature.
People liked to think of themselves as living a certain way, being surrounded by certain things. Creature comforts, signs of sophistication, evidence of success and, probably most important and least tangible, that sense of home, of safety and belonging. And even though what she did was all sm
oke and mirrors, the feelings her best work produced were real.
In her business, the key question was, When I walk into this place, do I feel like taking off my shoes, pouring a glass of sherry at the sideboard, then settling into a cushy chair with a good book and sighing, “I’m home”?
Forty-five minutes later, she was trying out the cushy chair and struggling to stave off a yawn. She tried Rand’s cell phone and his voice mail picked up on the first ring, indicating that his was still turned off. He was probably still in the air.
She waited another thirty-one minutes before heading into the kitchen. This was also beautifully arranged, right down to the retro apple design on the tea towels from a vintage-linens shop she frequented. One of the keys to staging was to find authentic things that had lost that artificial sheen of newness. The tea towels, faded but not shabby, perfectly fit the bill.
Olivia headed for the pantry, stocked with imported pasta from Dean & DeLuca, cold-pressed olive oil, pomegranate juice and dolphin-safe tuna. The stuff Rand usually ate, like Lucky Charms and canned ravioli, now lay hidden in covered wicker baskets that looked as though they wanted to go on a picnic.
She pulled out a basket and grabbed a bag of Cheetos. One of the many nutritionists she’d been sent to as a chubby teenager had counseled her about mood eating.
Screw that, she thought, ripping into the bag of Cheetos, which opened with a cheese-flavored sigh. Screw everything.
For good measure, she grabbed an Alsatian beer—another contrivance; he usually drank Bud—from the stainless-steel Sub-Zero fridge. She took a long, defiant swig and belched aloud.
She was about ten minutes into the Cheetos-and-beer-fest when she heard the front door open and close.
“Hey?” called a voice from the entryway.
Uh-oh. She looked at the orange dust clinging to her fingertips. It was probably crusted around her mouth, too.
“I’m back,” Rand called unnecessarily. Then: “Wow. Hey, this place looks awesome.”
Olivia threw the Cheetos bag and the beer bottle in the trash and rushed to the sink to wash her hands. “In the kitchen,” she answered, her voice a tad shrill. “I’ll be right out.”
