The Girlfriend (The Boss)

by Abigail Barnette

  “All this kale?” he quipped.

  “She’s got a point, baby,” I said quietly. “You haven’t told me what your wishes are. Do you have a burial plot? Do you want to be buried here? Do you want to be cremated? Or have a Viking funeral or something?”

  “I think a Viking funeral qualifies as cremation,” Emma said with a snort.

  “I left instructions with Alan,” Neil said, dodging two subjects at once.

  My face grew hot, and I swallowed down my anger. “And these instructions... I assume you spoke about them with Alan and Valerie at the same time you were discussing the will?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I nodded. “Ah.”

  Emma’s gaze flicked back and forth between the two of us like she was a bomb technician trying to decide whether to cut the blue wire or make a run for minimum safe distance. I could have sworn she was sweating.

  I considered my options. I could scream at him. I could storm off. But I was really hungry and the burger smelled good. And I’d done enough of the embarrassing confrontations over Emma’s mother with Emma present. Those weren’t fun.

  “I understand. This is a difficult subject to talk about,” I said, reaching over and putting my hand on his knee beneath the table. “How about I make it a little easier. You either tell me what these funerary plans entail, or you buy me a plane ticket and I go back to New York tonight.”

  He took a breath. “Sophie—”

  “I’m mad. I’ll be less mad if you just tell me about the damn arrangements.”

  “I’m with her on this,” Emma said. She sounded pretty pissed, as well. “I’m an adult now. I think it’s incredibly strange that you continue to do this stuff behind my back with mother. The two of you need to stop treating me like a child.”

  “Ganged up on,” Neil muttered to his plate. Then, brightening up a bit, he said, “Fine. I would like a funeral with a low mass at St. Paul’s Knightsbridge, followed by a luncheon here at the house.”

  “Low mass?” I shook my head. “Neil, you aren’t even religious.”

  “I’m not, but my mother is C of E. More as a hobby, but it would please her and put on a good show in front of her friends. I can give her that much.” He cleared his throat and continued. “I don’t want to be put on ice after I die. That seems ghoulish. Just have me cremated before the funeral. I have an urn picked out, Alan has it in his office.”

  Oh god. He’d already picked out his urn. He’d already bought his urn.

  He went on. “Sophie, you’re to be seated with Emma and my family. You’ll be listed in my obituary and in the minister’s remarks as my surviving partner. I hope that’s alright?”

  “Yes.” I could barely squeak out the word.

  “As for my ashes. If the two of you wish to divide them between you to keep them, you have my blessing. If you ever wish to be rid of me, my only request is that I be kept at Langhurst Court. Emma, Langhurst Court is a part of your inheritance. If you sell it, I would first like to be buried on the island in the southern lake, near the folly.”

  My throat stuck closed. I didn’t want to think about Neil being dead, his body reduced to ashes, gone from my life forever. I didn’t want to think about carrying around an urn with what was left of my boyfriend in it. I wished I’d never brought it up.

  “Excuse me for a quick minute.” I pushed back from the table and headed into the house, trying hard to stay composed for the short walk across the terrace.

  I heard Neil curse and push his chair back, but I didn’t stop for him. And as soon as I was inside, I picked up my pace, darting around a corner and into one of the service hallways.

  The break from chemotherapy had lulled me into a false sense of security. I’d been happy to ignore the thought of Neil dying, and it had been easy to do when he seemed to be getting well with every passing day. But we were about to be plunged into the scariest part of his treatment, and here I was, acting like a jealous fool because he hadn’t told me all about his hypothetical funeral.

  I braced myself with a palm against the wall as I cried. I felt like my ribcage was going to splinter inward and pierce my heart, the pressure there was so great. At the moment, I almost would have welcomed it; without a heart, metaphorical or literal, I couldn’t be hurt by Neil’s death.

  His footsteps preceded his soft, “Sophie? Sophie, darling. Look at me.”

  I turned slowly, wobbling in my heels. My clothes felt stupid now. What was I doing playing dress up when my boyfriend was dealing with all this shit? It had nothing to do with making him feel better, and everything to do with fooling myself into believing we were going to be fine.

  “This is why I didn’t want to talk to you about any of this.” He came to me and put his arms around me. I could feel his apheresis catheter through his shirt, and that made me cry harder.

  He held me, a hand on the back of my head, his arms wrapped tight around me, as I sobbed out all my frustration. I absolutely hated crying in front of people, and in front of Neil most of all. Especially now, when I was crying about something to do with him, that he couldn’t control.

  “I’m not dead yet,” He laughed softly against my hair. “And I don’t plan to be. Not now, anyway.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded and buried my face into his chest.

  “I know I’m making mistakes. I’ll make more. Many, many more, I’m sure.”

  How could he feel so solid and real, when one day he would die? How did any of this feel real?

  “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

  I lifted my head and blinked up at him. “Hurt me? Neil, you didn’t hurt me.”

  “I thought, because Valerie knew—”

  “Oh, piss on Valerie,” I hissed.

  And of course, that was exactly when Emma came around the corner, and I burst into fresh tears.

  “Give us a moment, Emma?” Neil asked over the top of my head, his arms tightening around me once more.

  I peeked up to be sure she was gone. “I don’t care about that. That’s not why I’m upset. It was a dick move on your part, yeah. But I’m upset and sad and angry because I don’t want to think about you dying. And I feel like everything I’m doing is... wrong. I should have asked you about this stuff a long time ago, so you didn’t have to go through planning it alone.”

  “I wanted to go through it alone.” He looked down his straight, handsome nose at me, a spark of pride I hadn’t seen in him in a long while fighting its way back. “You know how much I like to control things. Do you honestly believe I would be comfortable co-planning my funeral?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Darling, believe me. You have been more of a help to me than... well, I don’t know. I haven’t a bar to measure it by. But I do know that if I had gone through all of this by myself, if you hadn’t volunteered to come with me and entirely uproot your life to be by my side... I’m not sure I would have made it this far.”

  Just when I thought I might start bawling again, he hooked a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. “We got through the induction chemotherapy. We’ll get through this next bit, as well. And in a year, we’re going to look back on this and be grateful for what an easy time I had of it.”

  That was true. He’d had a very easy time, even if he’d been sick and miserable throughout. No infections, no hospitalizations, and remission within three months. There was no reason to believe the transplant process wouldn’t go just as well.

  “Let’s go back outside. Let’s enjoy our cold burgers,” he suggested with a chuckle, and I smiled.

  “I’m sorry. The stress is... getting to me,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “Well, I happen to know a very good method for eliminating stress,” he said with a lascivious arch of a brow.

  “I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” Emma called loudly from around the corner. “I really am leaving this time. Believe me that was entirely its own punishment.”

  And then I couldn’t stay sad. Because Emma
was too damn funny.

  * * * *

  When I’d emailed India Vaughn about my book idea, I’d expected her to respond by telling me to stick to my strengths and keep working on makeup videos. I was earning decent ad revenue from those, so I was fully prepared not to argue with her. When she emailed back two days later to ask to read what I already had written, I thought she was just being nice. When she emailed again to ask when I could take a phone call, I felt like I knew what was coming.

  “Sophie!” she effused over the line, enthusiastic but clearly tired. It was seven in the evening where she was, and the beauty department almost always worked late. “How have you been? You’re sure it’s not too late?”

  “Not at all. I don’t get regular sleep lately,” I laughed. It was eleven in London. Neil was in the den, waiting for me to come in and get up to some porn watching naughtiness with him. But India didn’t need to know that my lack of sleep was due to Neil trying to stock up on sex in anticipation of the difficult months ahead.

  “I’m sure you don’t, poor thing.” She sighed. “I don’t like Neil Elwood, but I wouldn’t wish cancer on my very worst enemy.”

  “It’s really awful.” There wasn’t much else to say on that subject. She’d already seen thirty-four pages of it.

  “Well, since it is so late there, I won’t keep you long. I looked over those pages you sent me, and I think they are absolutely fantastic. But—”

  Ah, there was the but.

  “I didn’t want to send it on to anyone until I had your permission.”

  Send it on to someone? Wait, what?

  “You see, the thing is...” she paused. “Well, to put it bluntly, is Neil Elwood going to want this book to be published by an Elwood and Stern company?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.” I didn’t think it would ever wash with Valerie. She’d been justifying her hatred of me with the fact that I was some sneaky, office espionage sabotage wizard.

  “It seems unlikely to me that he would allow you to publish a memoir that will make money for the competition,” India pointed out. “Even if you no longer work for Porteras.”

  “Wait a second, slow down.” I laughed, feeling suddenly light headed. “I was sort of expecting this call to go differently.”

  “Differently how?” she asked patiently.

  “You know. Differently. Like, I thought you would tell me that I’m an okay writer, but I should stick to fashion. Now you’re offering to send it somewhere for me?” I hurried to add, “Not that I’m not extremely grateful to you. I’m just... not prepared. The book isn’t even finished yet.”

  “That’s the lovely thing about advances, Sophie. They pay you before the book is finished.” India’s throaty chuckle betrayed her legendary cigarette habit. “Here is what I suggest. Speak to Elwood. Finish the book. Then come to me. If I can’t find a place for this book myself, then I’ll crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass to find you an agent for it.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t believe she was so determined about this. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but... You’re really helping me here. After the way I left Porteras... why?”

  I heard her slow exhale and imagined the smoke curling from ruby-red lips. “You have talent. And I’ve learned, from long, hard years in this business, that if you nurture talent and it grows into something successful, that success reflects back on you.”

  “That’s a good point. It does kinda work like that.” I don’t know why I felt slightly disappointed in that answer. I suppose because I wanted to hear that I reminded her of herself at my age, or that she had some emotional connection to me that made her want to mentor me.

  Then I snapped the fuck out of it. If India Vaughn wanted to help me become successful, I didn’t care if it was because she thought I might be a Russian sleeper agent or something. I could let her open the doors for selfish reasons, as long as I could stick my foot in them.

  When I hung up with India, I was full of raw, unrestrained writing power. I wanted to sit down and finish the book tonight— or at least, finish it to the part Neil and I were living now. But Neil was waiting for me, and I knew he wasn’t going to have many more good days once the transplant process started.

  So, just for the night, I shut down my laptop and headed off to join him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I think this is just about perfect.”

  I looked around the formal reception room in the low, golden lighting from the dimmed sconces on the walls and the dozens of gorgeous ivory and gold candle arrangements placed on end tables and the mantel. Emma and I had really out done ourselves on this get together, and I totally agreed with her. It was just about perfect. The catering service had set up a bar in the dining room, and instead of dinner, we’d decided on hot hors d’oeuvres

  “Okay, music wise, what do you think the vibe is? This is a laid-back thing, so I don’t want anything too stuffy or formal. So no piano.” Emma tapped her lips. “I’ll work it out.”

  “You go do that.” I smiled, but it was somewhat frozen on my face. I was nervous, as I had been on Christmas meeting his family. This was almost worse. Friends are the family you choose for yourself; I didn’t want Neil’s chosen family to dislike me.

  I wondered if Rudy disliked me, after what had gone down at Porteras. He was coming to stay in London while Neil had his transplant.

  I looked down at my lovely black skater dress and the wide band of sparkling silver sequins along the skirt’s hem. I wore some cheap, no-name sequined heels with it. Rudy was going to hate those.

  Checking my sleek ponytail in the gilt-framed oval mirror on the wall, I was giving myself a little mental toughness speech when Neil walked into the room. His eyes met mine in the reflection, and total joy suffused through me.

  We saw each other every day, but when he walked into a room, my heart lit up.

  “This is incredible,” he said, eyes boggling as he looked around. “You and Emma did all this?”

  “Well, Emma and I used your money to pay for all of this, and then we pointed to where the people we were paying should put things, but... yeah. We did it.” I turned and met him in the middle of the room.

  Tonight, he wore tan herringbone tweed trousers and a fitted white button down beneath a thin black v-neck pullover. And black bedroom slippers.

  “Nice,” I giggled, pointing to his feet.

  “I get comfortable footwear, because I’m an invalid,” he explained with a smile. “Sophie, this is lovely. Really. The night is already a success.”

  “Wait until you see the food.” I reached up and looped my arms around his neck. His hair had started to grow back just a little, just enough that I could see the shadow of it close up. I knew it itched like hell, but he wouldn’t shave it off until he started chemotherapy again.

  Which was tomorrow, so I warned, “Just don’t over eat. Otherwise it’ll be the pukelympics tomorrow night.”

  “I can’t promise anything.” He leaned down and kissed me.

  The bell rang.

  “You’re the guest of honor, you don’t have to open the door,” I told him. “Go help Emma pick music.”

  The first person to arrive was Michael. He stepped in and looked around warily, as though Neil would spring out and knife him. “I’m not the first here, am I?”

  “You are indeed, you lucky dog.” A Foster the People song started over the room-to-room sound system. “Emma and Neil are picking the music.”

  “That will end in bloodshed,” he laughed, just as the bell rang again.

  Neil’s friends and family were prompt. Emma and I had invited people to come at seven, and by five after nearly everyone had arrived. Valerie showed up with Bertie, her longtime partner who I’d only heard about, and who had become some kind of mythical beast in my imagination. I was a bit disappointed to see that he was just a man, average height, with a few silver threads in his black hair. He had a square jaw. He looked like a middle-aged Superman.

  Valerie
was cordial to me, but only just on this side of icy. She made a beeline for Neil, hugging him and acting concerned. I heard her ask, “Have you been receiving my messages?” and I thought the party might end in a brawl, but then Rudy’s arrival distracted me.

  “Miss Sophie.” It wasn’t a greeting, but a scolding.

  “You know, you haven’t seen me in like three months. Could you manage a ‘hello’ before you start getting all snippy?”

  “Could you manage not to destroy my best friend’s magazine? Oh no, I didn’t think you could.” He looked down at my feet, raised an eyebrow, and turned his face away. “Those are ugly shoes.”

  “Rudy!” Neil called as we entered the sitting room. He was standing beside the fireplace, talking to Bertie. Neil excused himself and came over to embrace his friend in a huge bear hug.

  Rudy staggered back, gripping Neil’s forearms to hold him still for a look. “My god. You’ve lost so much weight.”

  “And so much hair.” Neil ran his hand self-consciously over his scalp.

  “Bald is a classic style,” Rudy observed. “Now, where is that nosy little busy body? I can’t believe you invited her, she drove me absolutely crazy on the flight over.”

  “What nosy little busy body?” I asked, wondering if Rudy meant Emma or Valerie, but neither made sense because they’d both been in London this week. Plus, I didn’t think Neil would look so quietly pleased if someone called his daughter that.

  He scratched the back of his head and barely met my gaze. “Yes, well. I’d meant that to be a bit of a surprise, Rudy.”

  “What’s a surprise?” I asked, and before he could answer me, I heard a very familiar voice squeal, “We’re here!”

  I turned, and there were Holli and Deja, standing in the wide-open double doors.

  “Oh my god! Oh my god!” I ran to Holli and practically tackled her, tears of happiness streaming down my face. “You fucking bitch, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it’s a surprise!” Holli almost cracked my ribs with her boney, surprisingly strong arms.