by Cat Carmine
I look at Luke’s pieces critically — in this huge hip space they look cheap and flimsy. I’m not an idiot — I know these aren’t great designs. I know Luke is capable of doing better. Hell, the pieces he showed us that weekend were the kind of knockout things we used to be known for. But I can’t sell those pieces. These I can sell.
I think.
I run a hand lightly over the desk he put together and flinch when I get a splinter. I plaster a smile on my face as someone takes a picture, then turn around so that I can pry the little shard of wood out of my palm. I use the opportunity to also discreetly pop a couple more Tums. This whole thing is making me heartsick. I forced Luke to take the collection in this direction because I wanted to save people’s jobs — but if I can’t sell this line, then what?
I turn back around, another thousand watt smile stiff on my face. I would just have to sell it myself. Make them believe it. I hadn’t gotten this far in the business because I rolled over when things got tough.
I steel myself to face the reporters, and then stop. From across the room, I see her. Hannah. I breathe a sigh of relief and a level of tension drains from my body.
Fuck, she looks beautiful. That gold dress had looked perfect on her in the store, but now that she’s all done up — hair back, dangling gold earrings, bright red lipstick lighting up her face — she looks better than perfect. She looks like an angel.
She’s deep in conversation with a man who has his back to me, but as he turns to point something out to her, I catch a glimpse of his face and realize it’s Kevin Hartley, a reporter with the Post. The same one who seems bent on painting Loft & Barn as a dinosaur, fated for extinction.
I don’t want Hannah to have to talk to any journalists — and especially not this one — and I’m just crossing the room to swoop her away from him when I feel a hand on my arm.
I turn, and the ball of acid that’s been brewing in my stomach finally bubbles over. Fuck.
“What do you want?”
“I came to say congratulations on the new collection.” Lara smiles, her lips stretching out the lines around her mouth.
“Great. Thanks.” I start to walk away but she corners me.
“Interesting direction,” she says, gesturing at the pieces behind us.
I don’t even look at them. I don’t have to. I know they’re shit and I know she knows they’re shit.
“We’re expanding the line,” I tell her. “Making it more accessible and more affordable for the modern consumer.” I’m torn between wanting to convince her about the value of line and needing to cross the room to get Hannah away from that media vulture. My fists are balling at my sides and I shift from foot to foot.
“In other words, you’re going cheap.”
“Say what you want, Lara. In five years, every house in North America is going to have at least one piece of Loft & Barn furniture in it — probably more. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I don’t give her a chance to say anything else. Hannah is throwing her head back and laughing at something Kevin Hartley just said and it’s making my blood boil.
As soon as I reach her, I wrap my arm around her waist and whisk her away from him, mid-sentence.
“Hi,” she says, a startled expression on her face.
“I’m so fucking glad to see you,” I say. I press my lips against hers in a kiss that is way too intense for this public of a setting. I can’t help it though — I want everyone in this room to know she’s mine.
When I come up for air, she has a stunned expression on her face. She touches her lips lightly and laughs nervously.
“Why were you talking to the editor of the Post?” I demand. “You didn’t say anything about Loft & Barn, did you?”
“That guy?” She gestures back at him. “I don’t know who he is, he just cornered me when I came in. He told me how much he liked my dress.”
Right. Sure he did. Kevin Hartley might be a bastard, but he’s not an idiot. I remind myself that Hannah isn’t an idiot either — she wouldn’t have said anything less than glowing about Loft & Barn, even if he’d pressed her.
“Who was that woman you were talking to?” She says it casually, but I can see the way her lips turn down a little.
I sigh. “That was Lara Bennington.”
“Your ex.” It isn’t a question.
“The style editor at Design Times.”
“And your ex.”
“Yes, but I don’t like to dwell on that part.”
“She’s beautiful.” She nibbles at her bottom lip.
“Compared to you, she’s a troll.”
That earns me a small smile. I take a glance around the room and spot the woman from the Errant Design online news site trying to get my attention. Shit.
“I unfortunately have to go talk to someone right now,” I tell Hannah. “Can I get you a drink on my way back? Champagne?”
She glances around and I can tell she doesn’t want me to leave her alone. I lean over and kiss the tip of her nose.
“I’ll only be a moment, I promise.”
I leave her standing there, even though I don’t want to, and go find Lilliana Ivanov. She has a bunch of inane questions about the collection and I try to answer them as politely as I can, even though all I want to do is get back to Hannah.
Eventually I manage to brush her off. I glance around, looking for one of the waiters bustling around with champagne trays. I spot one and make eye contact, signaling for him to come over, but before he arrives I feel a hand on my arm.
“So who’s the little tart in gold?”
Lara again. Christ. This night just keeps getting better.
“None of your business.”
“She’s cute. Young, but cute. Where did you meet her?”
“None of your business,” I repeat.
She laughs. Her laugh is nasally and shrill and I have no idea how I tolerated it for three years.
“That means you don’t want to tell me. Let’s see — I don’t know her from the industry. So I’m going to guess … she works for you?”
I glare at her, my jaw working, and she laughs again.
“I’m right, aren’t I? Oh, Trent. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to shit where you eat?”
God, she’s crass. “It’s not like that,” I say, even though I don’t owe her any kind of explanation.
“Oh, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I can understand why the impressionable young girl would want to sleep with the sexy boss. I suppose she’s a little like me in that regard.”
“She is nothing like you,” I spit out. The thought alone is enough to make me feel sick.
“Really? Then why is she talking to Kevin Hartley? She certainly knows how to charm the right people.”
I look over and find Hannah once again locked deep in conversation with him. What the fuck? This time she seems to be standing even closer to him. I feel as if the room shifts a little under my feet.
Suddenly Lara is running her hand up my arm. I jerk it away and turn to glare at her.
“Why are you wasting time with her? There’s nothing she can do for you, Trent. Not like me.”
“She makes me happy.” My throat feels dry all of a sudden.
“I made you happy once.”
“Yes, and then I found out you were fucking half the city on the side.”
“That’s how this business works, Trent. Don’t be so naive. I helped you, you helped me. We both got what we wanted. I can do the same for you again.”
I want to cut her off but her last words stop me. “What are you talking about?”
“This collection is shit, Trent. I know it and you know it and every damn person in this room knows it. But if you make it worth my while, I can make sure everyone in the country thinks it’s the most revolutionary line since the fucking Eames chairs.”
Her proposal makes me sick. “Sorry, Lara. I’m not interested in —“
She cuts me off by pressing her mouth against mine. Her hard lips feel so fam
iliar … and awful. It’s not even a kiss. It’s like pushing your lips against a dead fish.
I push her off me … but then I see it.
Hannah. Standing just behind Lara. Staring at me with the most stricken expression on her face.
“Hannah…” I push past Lara, desperate to get to her, to take her in my arms and make her realize she didn’t just see what she no doubt thinks she saw.
But I’m not fast enough. She’s already flying out the front door of the warehouse.
39
lovemail
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Please pick up the phone
I’ve tried calling you six times now and you’re not picking up. Please pick up.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Okay
You’re still not picking up. I would prefer to be able to talk about this in person, but for now I’ll say this:
You didn’t see what you think you saw. I mean, yes, Lara kissed me. But it happened so fast. I was just pushing her off me when you saw us. I know that sounds like a line, but it isn’t, I swear.
I care about you so much, Hannah, and the thought of Lara ruining what we have is making me feel physically ill.
Love,
Trent
40
Hannah
I climb inside the cab and slam the door closed behind me and let out a shaky, sobbing breath. I give the driver directions to our apartment. We’re just pulling away when I see Trent burst out of the building. His eyes meet mine for just a moment but I force myself to look away, and then we’re gone.
Tears streak down my cheeks and I brush them angrily away. I don’t know if I’m more upset that this happened — or upset that I let myself get to the point where it bothered me.
I always knew Mister Bigshot and I were temporary. It’s not like the billionaire CEO ever ends up with the junior copywriter. It’s a nice fantasy but it’s not real life.
But somehow I’d let myself get caught up in the dream. Trent was so sweet, so attentive — so fucking sexy — that he had completely made me forget who and what he was. Who and what I was.
Lara was exactly the kind of woman someone like Trent should be with. Tall, blonde, beautiful, successful. She had looked completely at home at that party, and she had totally owned that red dress she was wearing. I could never pull off that kind of cool elegance.
The cab pulls up in front of my building and I make my way to the apartment on unsteady feet. I feel stupid in this gold dress now. All I want to do is sneak past Ally, change into my pajamas, and go to bed.
Of course, Ally, as usual, is in the living room when I try to silently edge the door open.
“You’re home early,” she says. Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”
I put my hand over my stomach. The dress is ridiculously soft under my hand. “I think I ate some bad shrimp,” I lie. I’ve gotten surprisingly good at lies since I started seeing Trent.
Ally’s face turns concerned. “Oh, God. That doesn’t sound good. Can I get you anything?”
“No.” I wave her off. “I’m just going to go to bed. Hopefully I can sleep through the worst of it.”
“Okay. Well, just yell if you need anything.”
“Thanks Als.”
I go straight to my room and start yanking the dress off before I even close the door. I shove it deep into the closet where I don’t have to see it. It seems like nothing but a cruel reminder of just how much I’d deluded myself over the last few weeks.
I slip on my pajamas — the ugliest, slubbiest ones I own — and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my neck. I wish I could do what I told Ally — sleep through the worst of it. But I already know that there’s no way sleep will come easy tonight.
In the morning I’m bleary eyed and exhausted. I think about calling in sick to work but I decide that sticking to a routine might be good for me. Plus I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t secretly hope that Trent would try to see me. I had ignored his message last night — and all his calls — but at work it would be harder to avoid him.
Stepping into the office, I immediately know something is wrong. A hush falls over the cubicles as I walk to my desk. I glance over at Sloane but she has her head bent studiously over her computer and she doesn’t look up as I pass.
I’m just about at my desk when Charlene emerges from her office. Her expression is colder than it’s ever been.
“Come into my office.” She doesn’t bother with any niceties.
I follow her, even though my legs are wobbling. I already know this can’t be good. Like, really not good.
Charlene is already sitting behind her desk by the time I reach her office and she gestures brusquely at the guest chair across from her.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” She’s twisting a pen between her hands and I can see how white her knuckles are.
“What?” I already have a sinking feeling that I know what she’s talking about but I figure I’ll play dumb until she comes right out and says it.
“It’s all over the company’s social media,” she says. She turns her monitor so that I can see the picture. It’s me, in the gold dress, leaning up against Trent. His arm is draped around my waist. We’re both smiling; we both look happy.
Seeing it hurts my heart almost as much as knowing Charlene has seen it.
“I never expected this from you, Hannah,” she’s saying. She’s twisting the pen harder now, and I get the sudden idea that she’s imagining it’s my neck. “But it all makes sense now.”
“I’m sorry, Charlene,” I say. I don’t know what else to say. “It wasn’t … it just sort of happened.”
“You’re fired.”
The words are like an electric shock.
“What? You can’t do that.”
She laughs. “Oh, I must certainly can — and I will. Security will be here to escort you out. Your things will be packed up and sent to you. And don’t expect your boyfriend to protect you — unless he wants HR up his ass for the rest of eternity.”
I’m already getting up out of the chair, stumbling backwards towards the door. I can’t let security walk me out — I can’t imagine anything more humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” I say one more time. I pull open the door to office and fall back out into our cubicle area.
This time I manage to catch Sloane’s eye, but as soon as she sees me looking at her she looks away. She looks pissed — pissed and hurt. I think of all the times I’ve lied to her over the past few weeks, and the sick feeling in my stomach gets even worse.
I hit the button for the elevator but it seems to take forever to come. I can feel everyone’s eyes on my back. Sloane, and Jim, and Charlene, and everyone else on our team, all the people that were starting to feel a little like friends. I can’t even imagine what they all must think of me now.
Finally, after what feels like hours, the elevator doors slide open. I get in and hit the button for the ground floor, but then it seems to take another hour for the doors to actually close. Sloane is looking at me again, and this time I’m the one who looks away. I don’t want her to see the tears that are falling from my eyes. She probably thinks I’m getting exactly what I deserve.
Maybe she’s right.
When I finally stumble out onto the city street, the sunlight feels blinding. I have to hold my hands up over my eyes. I scan the street for a cab and then realize I don’t have a job anymore. No more splurging on cabs. I’ll have to take the subway.
A fresh wave of tears prick my eyes. I can’t even parse through everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours — Trent kissing Lara. Losing my job. Sloane hating my guts.
This is a disaster.
And the worst part is, I totally should have seen it coming.
I mean, what did I think was going to happen?
I trudge to the train and slowly make m
y way back to my apartment. Soon I’m going to have to tell Ally what happened, and then I can add another disaster to the running tally — hurting my sister.
“Jesus, you scared me!” Ally is in her chair in the kitchen, unloading some dishes from the dishwasher, when I open the front door of the apartment. “What are you doing home? Can you get that?” She gestures at the coffee mug that fell from her hands when she startled.
I pick up the mug and put it in the cupboard. I don’t want to answer her question. I just want one more minute of pretending not to be a total fuck-up.
Ally stops unloading dishes and is staring up at me. Sudden understanding crosses her face. She nudges the chair a couple of feet closer to me.
“You lost your job, didn’t you? Trent? He fired you?”
“No — I mean, yes. But not like that. Not exactly.” I flop down at the kitchen table and the whole story comes tumbling out — the launch party with Trent, seeing him kiss Lara, Charlene firing me today.
When I finish, she’s quiet for a minute.
“I think you need a glass of wine.”
I’d been mentally preparing for the worst so her words actually make me laugh.
“It’s, like, ten in the morning.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you really going to argue with me?”
I laugh again. “Okay, no.”
She goes to the fridge and pours a glass of white out of an open bottle. She hands it to me and then shrugs and pours one for herself too.
“So… do you hate me?” I ask, after I’ve taken a fortifying gulp of wine.
Ally looks surprised. “Of course not! What a stupid question.”
“But we talked about this … without my income, we can’t afford this apartment.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m not stressed about it, but we’ll figure something out.” She takes a sip of her wine. “Do you think there’s a chance Trent would give you your job back?”
