Sophie (The Boss Book 8)

by Abigail Barnette

  The fact that we even had to make those internal justifications infuriated me. El-Mudad was right. Of course, he was right. Olivia had gained a family full of loving people. She had no reason to think that her life was strange or scandalous.

  I refused to think of it that way, either.

  As El-Mudad had reassured me, we arrived just as school was letting out. Mothers waved to each other as they crossed the parking lot in casual hiking clothes that had never walked farther than their car and into Starbucks. Even though they’d probably spent the same amount of time on their hair and makeup as I did every day, they somehow blended into the scene better than I did. Across a meticulous lawn, gone yellow with the cold, the main school building—a late 19th-century farmhouse that had been expanded with a matching addition—stood as a gateway to a world of nature trails and greenhouses and bright, inviting playgrounds.

  The school was less formal than the education Neil had envisioned for his granddaughter, but it was exactly the kind of place Emma and Michael would have wanted her to attend, which is why I’d insisted on it. Rather than traditional, sit-in-your-chair, color-inside-the-lines teaching, the kids got to direct a lot of their own learning through various activities like gardening or cooking. Their class pets were some goats that Olivia loved.

  The goats came up frequently when Neil doubted the efficacy of the learning environment.

  The school’s smallness was another big plus; there were less than a hundred children there, preschool through fourth grade. That meant that being just a few minutes behind gave us the advantage of not navigating through the crush to reach Olivia. She stood on the porch in her puffy coat, glancing around nervously. She spotted me, I waved, and she didn’t return it.

  "Where's Mariposa?" she demanded as I came up the steps.

  "She had to go to the doctor. I'm here to pick you up," I explained, turning to smile at the woman holding a clipboard with a sign-out sheet on it. Her uncertain expression met mine at the exact moment I realized that what I'd said sounded a lot like the script to a stranger-danger video. "Hi. Sophie Scaife. I'm—"

  "You must be Olivia's mother." The woman put her mittened hand out to shake mine.

  I involuntarily recoiled with guilt. "Sorry. Um, no. Guardian. Her mom—"

  "My mom is in heaven," Olivia spoke up. "I drawed a picture of my family. On the first day, I had to drawed a picture."

  "You drew a picture," I corrected her. "But yes, it was lovely."

  It was a super grim picture that had taken some explaining when the counselor had called about Olivia's emotional state. Our aspiring Goya had drawn two crude bodies with straight-line eyes under the strip of green grass upon which Neil, El-Mudad, the girls, and I stood. Olivia had depicted herself as a giant, smiling head looming over us all.

  The woman blanched. "I'm sorry. I just started here. Olivia, you must have drawn that before I got here."

  "It's okay. I'll do it again," she promised, and I really, really hoped that she would not. "Come on, Sophie."

  I signed her out quickly and wobbled down the steps. If I'd known I’d be making a campus visit, I wouldn't have worn pumps with such tall heels.

  Or my Tattersall-check Givenchy romper. I looked out of place among the glam-casual first wives of Long Island.

  "Excuse me," a voice asked as I approached the car.

  I turned, puzzled.

  The woman who'd spoken was slim, blonde, and not one of the moms, judging by the fact that her Kate Spade bag was a knock-off. Maybe she was an au pair. The woman asked, "Are you Sophie Scaife? The author?"

  Oh, right. That's me. I'd career hopped so much that I sometimes forgot one. "Yes, that's me."

  She pressed a hand to her chest. "I loved your memoirs. Loved them." Her gaze flicked to the car, where El-Mudad scrolled through his phone in the driver's seat, then back to me. "I saw you in Page Six."

  "Yeah, well. It was a bad photo. I don't have a lot of experience with, um, that kind of thing," I stammered.

  "Sophie, let's go," Olivia demanded, pulling on my hand.

  I would have a conversation with her about interrupting later when I wasn't so grateful for her interruption.

  "Sorry, I'm not trying to hold you up," the nanny apologized. "I just wanted to let you know I enjoyed the books." She looked at the car again. "I hope you write another one."

  Oh. Oh. "Yeah. Well. We'll see. Thank you."

  I gave her a half-hearted wave and opened the back door, ushering Olivia in and buckling her up with hands that trembled from delayed stage fright.

  "El-Mudad!" Olivia shrieked in delight, a stark contrast to her reaction at my arrival.

  "My Olivia!" He matched her enthusiasm. "I couldn't wait to see you. I had to come here myself." When I slid into my seat, he asked, "What did that woman want?"

  "Nothing important," I said with a forced smile.

  From the back, Olivia said morosely, "Not in front of Olivia."

  "I'm sorry, my Olivia," he apologized. "Tell me about your day."

  While she recounted with painstaking detail every moment from arrival to departure, my mind reeled. It should have been such a simple encounter; a woman enjoyed my books. She wanted to read another one. That was flattering. Being recognized, as though I were some kind of celebrity? A little thrilling.

  Or would have been if not for the circumstances. A stranger had been curious about the intimate details of my life. I didn't want that. I didn't want any kind of fame that would put a spotlight on our family, especially in light of our precarious situation with Valerie.

  Maybe I should have been flattered by the recognition, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something not quite right had just happened.

  Magazine cover unveiling parties served two purposes: self-congratulatory ego-stroking for everyone involved in the successful celebrity collaboration, a tribute paid in free booze, and luxurious gift bags to people with the power to make everyone talk about it. It had been one of my favorite parts of working at Porteras and Mode, because I’d rarely had to do anything at the events other than drink and spot celebrities.

  Though I no longer ran Mode with Deja, I still had a financial stake in the magazine, and I was pleased that it was doing so well. I was also delighted that the night would be a fundraiser for my husband’s charitable work and several other groups dedicated to helping victims of child sexual abuse in the United States. Sure, I was nowhere near Neil or El-Mudad in the rich and important rankings, but it was nice to work my own connections and feel like I contributed more to the planet than plastic waste.

  Also, walking into the party looking hot as hell with my husband on my arm? I would feel like a real successful bitch, then.

  Plus, I needed a win at the moment. Though we’d spent the holidays blessedly free from Laurence and Valerie—apart from helping Olivia FaceTime them on Christmas morning—Elwood & Stern bounced back like it always did, and February had seen Valerie’s return to the New York offices.

  And our visitation schedule.

  I was fastening on my earring in the dressing room mirror when Neil came in wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.

  My stomach dropped. "You're a little under-dressed."

  "Sophie, I can't go to the party."

  "Yeah, I got that from the whole…" I turned and gestured at his clothes. "Kind of late notice."

  "I know. Because I had every intention of going. And I apologize. But with the situation with Laurence and Valerie, I'm not in the best place. I don't think it would be wise for me to be in a social environment where the alcohol will be flowing." He looked down, ashamed, and my heart tore in two. “And I don’t want you to have to spend your entire night babysitting me.”

  I went to his side and threw my arms around his shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me? Did you tell Dr. Harris?"

  "We've talked about it. I called him this morning. I just hoped I would tap into some well of inner strength between then and now, I suppose."

  I stepped back to look him in the
eye. "Neil. This is a publicity event for a fashion magazine. Tapping into a well of inner strength is not something I would ask of you for this. I'll just go stag."

  He smiled down at me, his eyes full of sadness and disappointment. It stung to know that no matter what I said to reassure him, he would feel he'd ruined my evening. That he'd failed me in some way. And he would use that to beat himself up when he really should have been proud to make such a healthy decision for himself. “It’s also a charity evening that I should be attending.”

  “I’m there as your representative.” Honestly, it wasn’t like I couldn’t handle going to a party by myself. Maybe I’d feel like an even more successful bitch if I walked that red carpet solo. “Is El-Mudad still coming, though?”

  "He's getting ready right now." Neil kissed my forehead. "I am sorry. I wish—"

  "Don't," I said firmly. "This is the right thing. The only thing you didn't do right was that you didn’t count on me to understand. We're all messed up over the Olivia situation right now. If we don't talk about it, it'll drive us bonkers. And I would rather you not go bonkers alone."

  It was something Neil was tired of hearing, I knew, but he needed to. He'd spent so much of his life hiding his pain—over his assault, over his failed marriage, then over Emma—under heaps of substances. His first instinct was to stay strong and medicated. It had almost killed him. He had nearly killed himself.

  "Which is why I'm taking this momentous step and putting my needs before yours," he said ruefully. "Sorry about that."

  "I think the apology negates the mental health aspect." I paused. "You'll be fine here alone tonight, right?"

  "Absolutely. Rashida and I have plans to watch Supernatural together. It is apparently criminal that I have never seen it."

  "Oh, you have a lot of catching up to do," I warned him. Stepping back, I put my arms out. "So, what do you think?"

  I'd paired a very short, long-sleeved, black-and-mirror-sequined Balmain dress with purple suede Marant ankle boots. Jackson, my hair and makeup artist, had done a fantastic job dramatically contouring my face, and he'd given me a wicked smokey amethyst cat-eye look. With my hair up in a super high ponytail with long, crimped extensions, I looked like I'd just walked off the cover of a Duran Duran album.

  "I think I brought you home from a nightclub in 1986 and had coked-out sex with you," Neil quipped.

  "Exactly what I was going for." Usually, I did my own hair and makeup for going out, but this was an actual event. I had to show up looking awesome for my friends.

  "I'm sorry I won't be there to be photographed with you on my arm." He shook his head sadly. "You're the only trophy spouse I get to show off."

  I smirked at that. "Well, I won't be showing him off, either. We'll just happen to be at a party together. Speaking of which—and not to make you feel guiltier—Ian is going to be there."

  "Oh no, I forgot about Ian." Neil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Send my regards?"

  "Obviously. And you'll have to have a guy's night soon or something. You haven't seen Rudy in a while, either." My phone's alarm went off, and I swore. "Okay. I have to leave, or we won't get there at all. Are you going to be okay?"

  "Yes, I told you, Rashida is babysitting me tonight," he half-joked. "I'll be fine. Have a good time."

  He gave me a long, lingering kiss before we walked out.

  Though the three of us all slept in the same bed all the time now, El-Mudad had retained his former keeping-up-appearances-for-the-staff room because he loved the closet. He met me in the foyer, dressed in an obnoxiously blue Tom Ford jacquard jacket over a half-open white button-down and black tuxedo pants.

  "Oh no," I said, pressing a hand to my heart. "We clash, babe."

  "We're not walking in together," he pointed out. "We'll be standing vaguely near each other, giving no one anything further to gossip about."

  We left via the front door, and El-Mudad drove us down to the helipad. On the flight, I rested my head against his shoulder and watched as the lights below us intensified with every passing mile. "Maybe it's better this way. You would have been stuck at the party while Neil and I circulated together without you."

  "And at least now Rashida has someone to watch that awful show with her." El-Mudad shuddered. "I sat through seven seasons, and the angel and the hot one never fucked. I gave up."

  "I'm glad Neil is spending time with her. You know he loves both of your girls—"

  "But Rashida is the favorite," El-Mudad finished for me. "It's understandable. Amal is of an age where she doesn't want yet another person to remind her that she's not an adult. And she's more guarded. Rashida has a very open heart."

  "He misses being a dad, I think." That stung the way it always did when I thought of how much Neil loved Emma. It was brutally unfair that she'd been taken from him.

  "No one will ever replace Emma," El-Mudad mused.

  "You don't have to tell me that, believe me." I didn't want to bring the evening down before it began, but I had to ask. "You don't think Neil has anything in the house, do you?"

  "What do you mean? Alcohol?" He sounded a bit surprised.

  "Or drugs. He's hidden that kind of stuff before." It had taken a full-scale ransacking of the house to get rid of all of it.

  "No," El-Mudad stated firmly. "The fact that he didn't want to go out tonight, that he's admitting weakness? That's a good sign. If he were already relapsing, he would do anything he could to hide it."

  El-Mudad had been through two experiences with suicidal, addicted people. The first hadn't ended in recovery. He wasn't about to lose Neil, too.

  "We'll just be extra vigilant," El-Mudad finished, leaning his head to kiss the top of mine. "Now, sit up. You're going to get makeup on my jacket, and it’s not off-the-rack.”

  We flew into our usual helipad, where a car waited to take us to the party. Mode had come a long, long way from its early days; we were partying at Gotham Hall instead of a warehouse nightclub.

  "You're sure this is not a Batman party?" El-Mudad asked, still puzzled and slightly disappointed.

  "I'm sure. It's just the name of the building," I told him for what seemed like the fiftieth time. “You know, you could throw yourself a Batman party whenever you wanted.”

  We pulled up in the arrival line, and I flashed him a smile. "See you inside?"

  "Of course." He kissed my hand, then quickly let it go and slid as far toward the other side of the car as he could. I didn’t wait, launching myself from the car and knocking the arrivals attendant’s arm aside as he reached for the handle. I slammed the door shut before anyone could spot a second passenger.

  I wasn't a huge star who commanded the attention of every camera flash, but walking a red carpet was zero fun. Most galas and publicity events required it, even if you weren't that important. The biggest issue was trying to keep my eyes open while lights flashed in them. I wanted to thank the photographers who didn't think I was important enough to have my retinas burned out. Luckily, this red carpet was particularly short. Stop a second for photos, walk past the handful of press—

  "Sophie Scaife?" someone called, and I turned. A woman thrust a digital recorder in my face. "Jacqueline Barre for the Post. How does it feel to be here tonight, celebrating the meteoric rise of the magazine you founded?"

  Wow, actual questions? When we attended charity galas, I usually just barnacled to Neil’s elbow and let him do all the work. "Wow, meteoric. Um, well, tonight isn’t just about the magazine. I’m here because Deja Williams graciously worked with the Elwood Rape Crisis Center to help us raise money for survivors all over the United States, and I’m representing them tonight.”

  "Flying solo. All right. But you’ve been spotted out on the town with a friend recently," she said, quickly whipping to the subject she really wanted to ask about. "Do you think El-Mudad Ati will show up?"

  "I don't know Mr. Ati's schedule," I said, adding a cold, "Thank you," as I walked away.

  What the fuck? Why did anyone care about my l
ove life? Just because El-Mudad was a super-rich, "eligible bachelor" who'd recently moved to New York and had a higher profile than Neil? How were we supposed to keep our relationship secret if El-Mudad was going to be subject to so much scrutiny?

  It made me clench my teeth. I had to relax my neck intentionally.

  Once inside, I tried to focus on the amazingness of the party. It wasn't hard to do; the venue alone was super impressive. I'd been to fashion shows in the tall, round main room before. It was more like a Roman temple than an event space. Tonight, rose-gold light bathed the walls. Lana's gorgeous photos from the shoot projected onto softly wafting white silk panels around the room. A jazz quartet played on a small, round stage in the center of a dance floor.

  Oh my god, is she going to sing? I will die. Totally die.

  A group of influencers who’d entered in front of me split off to check out the gift room situation, and I slid around the perimeter of the space, looking for anyone I knew.

  Or anyone I didn't know but had a crush on and listened to her albums all the time.

  When I ran into Ian near one of the bars, I was a little disappointed that he wasn't her. I had also hoped that when I did run into him, he would be with Penny. No matter how long ago our hook-up had been, it still felt kind of weird being alone with my friend's husband, whom I had previously fucked, and whose ex-wife I had continued to fuck casually during and after their divorce.

  "Is that Sophie Scaife? Or a girl from a Robert Palmer video?" Ian teased, stepping out of the drink line. Ian was the kind of person who would be hard to miss in a crowd. Tall, with dark hair going gray in the sexiest, dignified way, and a handsome, animated face with a smile that could incinerate the panties off a woman, Ian had the irreverent charm of a total extrovert.

  Penny was a super lucky woman.

  "You'll lose your place!" I gasped, gesturing to the quickly closing gap in the line he'd vacated.

  "Oh no! I thought you'd be able to get me into a super-secret VIP bar!" Despite living in the U.S. for over thirty years, Ian still had a thick Scottish accent. According to his wife, it became even more inscrutable when he was drunk or exhausted, two things he was very likely to be at an event with an open bar and two infant twins at home.