Abby went to take a shower after that, to try and get the paint off. And a little while later, Morgan went to bed with some reading to do for work, and Claire went back to the drawing board. It had been a nice evening. It was rare for all of them to be home for dinner together. It made the day seem gentler and the bumps in it less unpleasant. Claire smiled to herself, thinking of her roommates. They were all good women, and the people who meant the most to her, other than her mother. They each supported one another in their endeavors. It was exactly what a family should be, Claire thought, as she came up with a detail she really liked on one of her drawings. And the best part for all of them was that this was not the family that they had been born with, this was the family they had chosen. And it worked for all of them.
As Claire thought about it and continued drawing, she hoped they would live there together forever, or for a very, very long time. The apartment was quiet as she mused about it. The others were asleep by then. She was the night owl in the group, and she liked working late. It was after two in the morning when she turned the lights out and went to her bedroom. She brushed her teeth, put her nightgown on, and climbed into bed a few minutes later. She hadn’t realized it would turn out this way, but this was the home and the family she had always wanted. No one was bitter, no one was angry, and they had never disappointed each other. No one had made sacrifices they would resent silently forever. And the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen was the safe haven that each of them needed in order to pursue her dreams.
Chapter 2
On the subway on the way to work the next day, Morgan saw a mention of Max’s restaurant on Page Six of the New York Post, and smiled to herself as she read it. The few lines devoted to it talked about the great food and atmosphere, and listed several of the actors, writers, dancers, and sports figures who hung out there. And of course, they always mentioned Greg. She read The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times every morning, after going to the gym religiously at six A.M., but she liked glancing through the Post and reading the gossip on Page Six for a little levity and spice, and she knew who must have given them the information about the restaurant. She called her brother as soon as she got off the train and was walking from the station to work. It was another hot day, and she was wearing a short black skirt, crisp white blouse, and high heels, and men noticed her as she walked past.
“Nice mention of the restaurant,” Morgan complimented him, when Oliver answered his cell. He had been in PR since graduating from Boston University with a degree in communications twelve years before, and was now a vice president at an important New York firm, and had several well-known clients, mostly in sports. But he liked Max and did him a favor whenever he could. One of his clients, a pitcher for the Yankees, was mentioned on Page Six that morning too. “That was nice of you to do.” She got along well with her brother. He was her only living relative, and they had been very close ever since their parents’ deaths when they were both still young.
Oliver and his partner had a nice apartment on the Upper East Side, and loved to tease her for living in Hell’s Kitchen, but they enjoyed visiting her at the loft, and liked her roommates a lot. Oliver had come out and told her he was gay after their parents’ deaths. He said he would never have dared while their father was alive. Their father had been a contractor, when he was working, and had been openly critical of gays, maybe because he suspected his son was. But Oliver was comfortable with who he was. At thirty-five, he and Greg, his partner, had been together for seven years.
Greg had had his own family issues. He was one of five boys, from a simple Catholic family in Quebec. Four of them were professional hockey players, and his father had been heartbroken when he told him he was gay. He said openly now that he had known he was gay all his life, since he was nine or ten. He just liked boys, and his father had eventually adjusted, although he was sad about it. Greg and Oliver genuinely loved each other, and Max enjoyed spending time with them too. Morgan and Max went skiing with Oliver and Greg sometimes, when Max could get away. He teased them about their dogs, which made Oliver groan. It was one of his few disagreements with Greg. They had two Yorkies and a teacup Chihuahua Greg was crazy about and dressed in tiny Rangers uniforms someone had made for them.
“For heaven’s sake, you weigh two hundred and sixty pounds and you’re a goalie. Can’t we get a decent-size dog, like a Lab or a golden retriever? They make us look so gay!” Oliver complained, and Greg laughed.
“We are!” he reminded Oliver, and grinned. Oliver groused about it good-naturedly and regularly threatened to get a Saint Bernard, but he loved the dogs too. And he and Greg never tried to hide what they were. Greg had been one of the biggest sports figures to admit openly that he was gay.
“Do you want to have dinner at the restaurant Saturday?” Morgan asked her brother as she got to her office building.
“I’ll check with Greg. He said something about a birthday party in Miami. If we’re in town, I’d love it. I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds good.” She blew him a kiss and hung up, and her thoughts turned instantly to work. She and George, her boss, had a meeting scheduled that morning with a new client who was looking to place a lot of money. George had been courting him for months. He had made some very profitable investments for one of the potential client’s friends, and Morgan had done her homework for the meeting, and had discussed George’s plans for him at length. She had contributed several additional suggestions that George liked and was planning to present too. They were a good team. And he always said she was a genius with numbers and could read a spreadsheet faster than their accountants and spot an error everyone else had missed.
George was a handsome, successful bachelor, but his relationship with Morgan had always been strictly business. He never played where he worked, which she respected about him. At thirty-nine, he was hotly pursued by every gold digger in New York, and some very nice women too, some of them with a great deal of money. They felt safe with George since he had his own. He had made a fortune in recent years, and Morgan respected him for that. He was brilliant at what he did, and deserved his success. She had learned a lot from him in the past three years. They never saw each other socially, but she enjoyed traveling with him. They went to some terrific places to see clients, or check on investments—Paris, London, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Dubai. Her work life was a dream.
She checked all her facts on her computer, organized the papers on her desk for the presentation, and made some calls, and the new client came in at ten. He was a well-known man in his fifties who had made a fortune in the high-tech dot-com boom, and was said to be a billionaire, and he was interested in everything George and Morgan had to say. George had suggested several additions to his portfolio, some of them high risk, which didn’t seem to faze the client, and George had incorporated Morgan’s suggestions, and even attributed them to her. He was always fair. She thanked him as soon as the client left, and George looked pleased. The client had been very receptive to everything they’d said.
“We’re in,” George said with a grin. He was smooth as silk, and Morgan loved watching him handle their clients. He had it down to a fine art.
She went back to her own office then, and the day flew by with meetings, and some research she had to do after their meeting that morning. She always did her homework and followed up meticulously. George knew that he could count on her, and she gave him the information at the end of the day.
She had a meeting with a stock analyst that evening for a drink. She wanted to discuss two new IPOs with him, and hear what he had to say. She had her doubts about one of them. Her dream was to have her own select group of clients one day. She wasn’t as aggressive a risk taker as George, but she had solid knowledge, used sound investment practices, and had six years of great experience since business school. She was well on her way, even if she never attained the stellar heights that George had achieved in his dazzling career, but who knew what could happen? She was on a definite career path. Her life was in a good place
.
—
It was another stressful day for Claire, with arguments with Walter about the quantity of shoes they should produce for their spring line. He always wanted to play it safe, both with production quantity and design. She wished he would give her more leeway, but he never did. He never budged on anything. And Monique, the new French intern, irritated her all day. Claire felt like she was babysitting a petulant child and didn’t have time to entertain her. By the time she got back to the apartment, Claire was seriously aggravated, and wished she had the guts to quit. But she needed the money, and didn’t want to take a chance on being out of work while she looked, or risking the job she had if she started looking and Walter heard about it and fired her. He had her back to the wall, and all she wanted to do was design more exciting shoes.
As she dropped her keys onto the hall table, and glanced at her mail—all bills and ads, everything else came to her by e-mail or on Facebook—she noticed that Sasha was already home. She could see her lying on the couch, barefoot and in shorts, reading a magazine. Sasha glanced up at her and smiled, sipping a glass of wine, which meant she was off call, which was a relief for her. She hardly ever got time off, and Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her read a magazine.
“They finally gave you a break?” She was happy for her.
“I’m not working this week,” Sasha said vaguely, sipping her wine.
“Not since yesterday. That’s hardly what I’d call a vacation.” Sasha laughed at her then and sat up on the couch. “I had a shit day,” Claire complained to her. “I may have to kill the little French girl, if I don’t kill Walter first. I’m beginning to have fantasies about it. I’m sick of designing shoes for women with no imagination and no taste.”
“Then quit,” Sasha said bluntly. “Fuck them. Why be miserable in your job?”
“Hello, remember me? I need the money. I’m not an heiress, and what if I’m out of work for six months? That could happen.” Claire looked worried as she said it.
“There’s always prostitution,” Sasha said, sounding flippant, and suddenly what she said didn’t seem like her. Sasha was always sensitive about Claire’s fears about her job and her future.
And then Claire took a closer look and narrowed her eyes as she stared hard at Sasha.
“Smile at me,” she said cryptically to the exquisite woman on the couch. Sasha had a natural beauty that nothing could dim, even uncombed hair and hospital scrubs.
“Why?” she said in response.
“Never mind why—smile at me.” Sasha did as she was told, and smiled broadly, showing off gorgeous, perfect teeth. She hadn’t even had braces. She’d been naturally flawless from birth. And Claire laughed the moment she smiled. “Jesus, you two ought to be forced to wear a sign, or get a tattoo on your foreheads with your name.” Only when they smiled could she detect the faintest dissimilarity in the twins. Although they looked the same, and were truly identical, there was an almost microscopic difference in their smiles. Claire had noticed it early on, but Valentina still fooled her a lot of the time, especially when she wanted to, which she did often. She was much more mischievous than her twin, and explained it by saying that Sasha was older, by three minutes, therefore more serious. Valentina considered herself the younger sister, and was lying on the couch drinking wine. “I thought you were Sasha,” Claire explained, but Valentina already knew that and looked amused. She loved fooling them. In some ways, she behaved like a naughty child, in contrast to her more responsible sister.
“Sasha said she’d be here by now, but she just called to say she got stuck at work. Some woman is delivering. I don’t know why she didn’t pick a better specialty, like plastic surgery.”
“Face-lifts sound even more disgusting than childbirth,” Claire said honestly, and poured herself a glass of the wine. Valentina had blithely opened one of their best bottles of white wine, although most of the time she preferred champagne. She was spoiled by the men she went out with, all of whom had vast amounts of money, and most of whom were twice her age, and dazzled by her. It was hard not to be, and she had all the habits of a spoiled brat, which Sasha didn’t. All the roommates loved Sasha, and put up with Valentina. Sometimes she was funny, but none of them would have wanted to live with her. Nor did Sasha. Valentina had driven her crazy while they were growing up, although they still had the close relationship typical of twins.
Valentina then wandered into Sasha’s bedroom and came out a few minutes later, wearing a very pretty skirt Claire hadn’t seen her roommate wear all year. Valentina helped herself to whatever she wanted, always, and never asked her sister’s permission.
“She’ll never have time to wear this,” Valentina said to Claire as she sat down and poured herself another glass of wine. “It looks better on me anyway. She’s losing weight from working too hard. Everything hangs on her.” Claire could detect no difference in their weight, or anything else about them, except the smile.
They chatted for a little while, and then Valentina went back to reading Vogue, and half an hour later Sasha walked in, and was surprised to see her sister wearing her skirt. “What are you doing wearing that?” She didn’t look happy about it, and Sasha seemed like she was in a hurry.
“You never wear it, I’ll just borrow it for a few days.” And then forget to give it back, Sasha thought to herself. Their father had sent it to her from one of his stores in Atlanta, it was by a well-known designer, and he knew she never had time to shop for clothes. Valentina had no problem buying clothes for herself, or taking what she wanted from her sister. And she got a lot of the clothes she modeled after the shoots.
“Dad sent it to me,” Sasha told her, as though that made the skirt meaningful to her. Valentina shrugged. She didn’t get along with their father and didn’t like his second wife and made no secret of it. “I’m going out,” Sasha said to her sister, as Valentina settled back onto the couch, wearing the borrowed skirt.
“Back to work?”
“I have a date,” Sasha said, embarrassed. “I forgot. He just called to remind me.”
“With who?” Valentina looked surprised, and so did Claire. Sasha hadn’t had a date in months.
“Some guy I met last month. I think he thought I was you. He acted like he knew me, and then I realized he had us confused.”
“And he still thinks so?” Valentina was amused, and Sasha annoyed.
“Of course not. I told him, but he asked me out anyway. He’s an actor, and he models underwear for Calvin Klein.”
“He must be cute,” she said, glancing at her sister.
“Yeah, kind of. I wasn’t going to go out with him, but he made a big fuss that I sounded like I’d forgotten, and I didn’t want to admit I had. He’s taking me to some art opening, and dinner afterward.” It didn’t sound like Sasha’s kind of date, which were usually with other doctors, people she met at medical conferences, or related to her work. An actor/model wasn’t her style, or even Valentina’s. “I said I’d meet him in half an hour.” And thinking about it, she was sorry Valentina had taken the skirt—she didn’t know what to wear.
“Wear something hot,” Valentina advised her, as Sasha disappeared into her room, pawed through the closet, and came up with a white cotton dress and threw it on the bed. Valentina came in a minute later and shook her head. “You’ll look like you’re going to the beach. There’s a black pencil skirt at the back of your closet, and a silver tube top. Wear that.” Sasha hesitated for a minute and then nodded. Valentina knew a lot more about fashion than she did. She jumped into the shower, and was dressed ten minutes later, her long blond hair still wet.
“Blow-dry your hair, put on makeup, and wear high heels,” her twin advised her, as Sasha headed back to the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later, and actually looked like she was going on a date, except that she couldn’t find heels in her closet. She walked into the living room barefoot, and Claire handed her a pair of high-heeled sandals. Conveniently, they wore the same size. Sasha looked ter
rific in the outfit her twin had chosen for her with her roommate’s shoes.
“Now you look hot!” Valentina said, smiling at her. Sasha suddenly looked like Valentina, but she could hardly walk in Claire’s towering high heels.
“Can’t I wear sandals? I think he was short anyway. I can’t remember.”
“No, you can’t,” Valentina and Claire said in unison, and five minutes later Sasha clattered down the stairs, feeling like a fraud and hoping she wouldn’t break her neck in the high heels. She felt like a poor imitation of her twin, which was what her date had probably wanted anyway, a date with Valentina, not with her. It had been the story of their early life. They were always trading places. Sasha wrote term papers and took exams for Valentina, and Valentina sometimes went on dates pretending to be Sasha.
Sasha hailed a cab on Tenth Avenue, and gave the driver the address of a gallery in Chelsea, where she was supposed to meet her date. She saw him as soon as she walked in, and he made a beeline for her.
“Wow! You look amazing.” He had his cell phone in his hand and snapped a picture of her before she could stop him.
“Why did you do that?” Sasha felt out of place and ill at ease.
“I put everything I do on Instagram,” Ryan Phillips said to her. The thought of it made her uncomfortable, and she followed him into the crowded gallery, where he seemed to know everyone.
Ryan was a handsome man about her age, and as women crowded around him, Sasha felt naked in the top her sister had told her to wear. It just wasn’t her, and it was awkward being out of hospital scrubs. A number of men talked to her, and Ryan was attentive, but she still thought she looked like a poor imitation of Valentina, and she was exhausted by the time they left the gallery and took a cab to a restaurant in SoHo, which was mobbed and noisy, and everyone knew him there too. Conversation was nearly impossible once they were seated at the table, and he took another picture of her on his cell phone, which unnerved her even more. She wondered if he was letting people think he was on a date with famous supermodel Valentina, and not with her twin. She felt like an imposter with him, but had told herself it would do her good to get out for a change. No one had asked her on a date in months, and she was guilty about not making the effort to meet new people and go out. But now that she was here, it was all too strange. He was a good-looking guy, but they had nothing in common, and she doubted he would ask her out again.
The Apartment Page 3
