On Saturday night, Oliver and I were going to see Tristan und Isolde at the Met. Oliver would be wearing a tuxedo, which meant I had to rent a dress, because nothing in my closet was fancy enough. I took my time getting ready, a long bubble bath with a glass of wine. I preferred the bathtub in Stella’s room, which sat beneath a frosted-glass window, open to the May afternoon. The exposed parts of my skin pricked with goose bumps in the breeze, which made it even more luxurious to sink deeper into the hot water. When I moved down to Washington, I’d have to live somewhere boring and cheap. I’d miss this beautiful apartment. The night felt valedictory—one of my last Saturday nights in New York.
Later, I stood in a bathrobe in front of Stella’s mirror and laid out my makeup. My rented dress was hanging from the shower rod, wrinkles loosening in the steam. Over the wheezy drone of the blow-dryer, I didn’t hear him coming. He appeared behind me in the mirror, like a ghost.
“What the fuck!” I said, nearly dropping the blow-dryer.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Oliver said, pulling flowers from behind his back. “Calla lilies. Your favorite.”
“Oh.” I didn’t even like calla lilies; he did. “Thank you. But Jesus, Oliver. Did you have to sneak up on me? How did you get in?”
He dangled a set of keys. “We all have keys to this place.”
“We?”
“Your landlords. Anne, and Thomas, and me.” His smile and his smirk were nearly identical. “I’m going to put these in water. Why are you in here, anyway?”
“It’s…it has better lighting. For doing makeup.”
“Good idea,” he said. “You don’t want to look garish.”
I scowled in the mirror after he left. I was tempted to wear blue eye shadow and neon lipstick, just to spite him. But when I emerged a half hour later, he said, “You look beautiful.” My makeup was tasteful and minimal. The dress was strapless, navy blue, formfitting and flattering. My hair was straight and smooth over my shoulders, and I wore a sparkling rhinestone necklace, rented along with my dress.
Oliver stared at me. Then he said, “It would look better with your hair up.”
I crossed my arms. “Hair up doesn’t work with the necklace.”
“Get rid of the necklace. Earrings go better with a dress like that.”
As I unfastened the necklace and pulled my hair into a chignon, I wondered why I was even listening to him. But the mirror confirmed it: he was right, his way was better. He and Stella both had this quality—an unerring instinct for what looked good.
The performance began at 6:30 p.m., and it was 6:25 by the time the cab pulled up at Lincoln Center. “Hurry,” Oliver said, already several steps ahead of me.
“We still have five minutes.” I was moving as fast as my heels permitted.
“When they say six thirty, they mean six thirty. Not even a minute later.”
“Well, that’s not friendly. What if your subway gets stuck?”
He turned and shot me a look. “Then you should have planned better.”
I rolled my eyes at his back. We reached our seats with seconds to spare. Oliver took my hand as the lights went down, but I pulled it back into my lap. He looked at me crossly. Then he whispered, “By the way, you can’t look at your phone during the performance. Your job will have to wait.”
“I’m not an idiot, Oliver.”
“Good.” He turned his gaze back to the stage as the orchestra began playing.
At the first intermission, as we took our seats at the Grand Tier restaurant, Oliver spotted someone he knew. “He’s on the board of Lincoln Center,” he said. “The nominating committee, in fact. I have to say hello. I’ll be right back.”
The first part of the opera had left me unmoved, but the building was another thing. Alone at our table, I was free to gawk: the red carpeting, the starburst chandeliers, the murals. It was like an exquisite jewel box. And the people! The men in tuxedos, the women in long dresses, holding glasses of champagne and greeting one another with intimate recognition. It felt part of another era, St. Petersburg in the time of tsars and tsarinas, Fifth Avenue in the Gilded Age. Across the restaurant, Oliver laughed heartily with a silver-haired gentleman. Oliver was confident he’d be asked to join the board soon enough. There were a few board members pushing ninety, in poor health. He was, he said, just waiting for one of them to die.
In a weird way, I admired this about Oliver, the brutal clarity with which he understood his own ambition. We had this in common. There were boxes to check, and he checked them no matter what. Maybe this was why I had once found myself attracted to him.
But there were factors holding Oliver back. He was too many generations removed from the origin story, the great-grandfather who made the Bradley fortune. Wealth was the ultimate safety net, but it made your edges duller. Born into different circumstances, Oliver could have been a corporate killer, the guy who started in the mailroom and wound up in the corner office. But this world, the world of tuxedos and ball gowns and board seats, only countenanced that bloodlust in the first generation. Oliver could make partner at his law firm, but he would never be on the cover of Forbes. He could run for the Senate, but never for president. There were very few heirs and heiresses who avoided this trap, who kept their edges razor-sharp. Stella, strangely, had turned out to be one of them.
“Success?” I asked, when Oliver returned to the table.
“Time will tell,” he said.
The performance was nearly five hours long. At the second intermission, back in the restaurant, a woman approached our table, an old family friend of the Bradleys. Oliver stood and kissed her on the cheek.
“How is your family?” the woman said, gripping Oliver’s forearm, leaning in close. Old people loved Oliver. “Your poor parents.”
Oliver changed his expression to look solemn. “We’re holding up,” he said.
“I just can’t stand it,” the woman said. “That beautiful girl. I hope whoever did this to her—well, I hope that when the police find him, they shoot him on sight.”
Oliver grimaced. “I agree. Although I wouldn’t count on the police. They’ve been, let’s say, less than efficient.”
“How dreadful.”
“But you know my mother,” he said. “She’s taking matters into her own hands. She’s up in Maine right now, in fact.”
“She is?” I said.
The woman smiled politely at my interjection. Then she turned back to Oliver. “That sounds just like Anne,” she said. “You’ll let me know if I can help in any way?”
After she left, I said, “You didn’t tell me your mom was back in Maine.”
Oliver sipped his espresso. “I thought I’d spare you. You don’t seem to like talking about the investigation.”
“But I still care,” I said. “And you’re the one who hates talking about her.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged, as if to say why should a pair of sociopaths like us split hairs? “It’s pointless. A wild-goose chase. But it makes my mom feel better. That’s why she keeps doing it.”
“What’s she looking for?” I was annoyed. Why had Oliver kept me in the dark?
Oliver cocked his head. “An explanation, of course.”
The third act was interminable. My dress was too tight, my heels pinched my swollen feet. I crossed my legs one way, then another, unable to get comfortable. I didn’t understand how you were supposed to keep track of the action on the stage, and also the subtitles on the tiny seat-back screen. Oliver had explained that most of the audience was already familiar with the story. They didn’t need the subtitles to follow along.
Well, I didn’t get it. These performers, singing grand words about love and passion and betrayal, without even a remotely plausible story upon which to hang the emotions—it made no sense. It required more than just a willing suspension of disbelief. Delusion, maybe.
But clearly I was a philistine. The audience, minus me, was rapt with attention as Tristan died in the arms of Isolde. The opera was unde
rpinned by the philosophy of Schopenhauer—I had read about this on my phone, in the cab uptown. It had something to do with needing to renounce the material world in order to achieve true peace. Of course, the audience watching the performance probably possessed a collective wealth larger than the GDP of Slovakia. If their Patek Philippes and diamonds weren’t the apotheosis of the material world, I didn’t know what was.
There were now several performers on stage. I had completely lost track of the action. I felt disoriented, and suddenly panicked. I didn’t belong here. My heart was beating too fast. The music was overwhelming, the tone of voice prosecutorial. Someone had betrayed someone else. But I didn’t even know who I was supposed to care about. There were a thousand faces turned toward the stage, and I was the only person who couldn’t see what they all saw.
When I squeezed out of the aisle, several people grumbled. The usher at the door said, “You won’t be able to go back in, miss.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Where’s the bathroom?”
After I’d splashed water on my face, and sat down in the stall for several minutes with my dress unzipped, letting my rib cage reinflate, I felt better. Scrolling through e-mail, firing off responses while I waited in the bright lobby: it was like a fast-acting drug, erasing the panic I’d felt in the darkened theater.
But. But. Anne was stubborn, just like Stella. My tracks were covered, my alibi was intact—or so I thought. But how could I be sure? What if something had changed?
The doors to the theater opened, and the audience exited in a steady stream. When Oliver caught sight of me, he looked so righteously pissed off that I considered turning around and getting my own cab.
“I can’t believe you did that,” he said, as we walked outside.
“Why? I had to go to the bathroom.”
“That was unacceptable.”
“Just stop,” I said. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child.”
“It’s a breach of etiquette. And right at the finale. It is beyond rude.”
“I don’t care!” I snapped. “I don’t care about the opera, and I don’t care about the etiquette. This is so not my thing, Oliver.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But it’s my thing, Violet.” He was doing his best to soften his tone. “It’s important to me. Doesn’t that matter to you?”
I ignored him, moving north on Broadway to get upstream of the other people trying to hail cabs. When we climbed into a taxi, I said, “I’m leaving, Oliver.”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“You know how I was in Washington on Monday? Well, I was interviewing for a job. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to get it.”
He was quiet for a long time. “You said you were there to work on a story,” he finally said. Then he added, “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was real.”
“But why? Where is this coming from?”
“This is a big move for me, Oliver. Plus”—I paused, took a breath—“I need a fresh start.”
“A fresh start from what, exactly?”
There was a new kind of anger in his face. For the first time, I was frightened of Oliver. Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe he was exactly as cutthroat as his sister.
“Say it,” he said in response to my silence. “I want you to say it out loud.”
“From Stella,” I said. “From everything.”
He closed his eyes for several seconds. Then he opened them and said, “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going to let her win. Not this time.”
“You’re not letting anyone win. This is something I’m doing for me. For my career.”
“You need a fresh start?” he said. “Well, if it weren’t for Stella disappearing, you wouldn’t be leaving New York. Isn’t that true?”
What could I say? Yes, but that was beside the point, because if it weren’t for Stella disappearing, Oliver and I would never be together in the first place.
Oliver smirked at my lack of retort. “No,” he said again. “She ruins everything, but I’m not going to let her ruin this.”
Chapter Nineteen
the next week, after wrapping Wednesday night’s broadcast, Rebecca and I wound up in the same elevator. “I hear we’re about to lose you,” she said.
“Nothing’s definite yet,” I said.
“The way Trish has been talking, I’d say it is. She’s thrilled, you know. Most of the good people want to stay in New York. Washington isn’t exactly glamorous.”
“That’s what I like about it.”
“You’ll be back, though.” We walked through the lobby, toward the street. Rebecca’s black town car was idling by the curb. “They’ll give you a few years to turn that place around, then they’ll call you back up to the majors.”
As I walked home that night, I wondered if what Rebecca said was true. If the tether of KCN eventually reeled me back to New York, I’d be returning as a new person. Washington would be a fresh start, and this chapter would become a tragic footnote. There were a lot of people in television like Corey, who had married young and then realized their ambition was so much larger than that of their spouse. So they divorced, and it was unpleasant, but eventually the memory receded. It seemed like half the people in TV had failed starter marriages. Maybe Stella had been mine.
At home, when I unlocked the door, the lights in the apartment were on. I froze in the doorway, keys in hand.
“Hello?” a voice called, from inside the apartment. “Violet? Is that you?”
Oliver appeared, holding two glasses of wine.
“You let yourself in?” I said. “Oliver, you have to give me some warning.”
He handed me a glass and smiled. “You know, this apartment is growing on me. I’m thinking I might give up my place and move in here.”
Oliver had been acting strange since the opera on Saturday. His charm had become more brittle than usual, his conviction absolute. He seemed determined not to relive any of the weekend’s unpleasant arguing, but the result was that he said outlandish things—like “I’m moving in”—and before I could respond, he quickly changed the subject.
Well, so be it. I only had to tolerate this for a few more weeks. The next morning, in the kitchen before work, I said, “Will you let me know if I need to do anything about the apartment—paperwork or anything like that?”
Oliver was reading the paper, waiting for his coffee to cool. “I doubt it,” he said, idly turning a page. “The apartment is under my parents’ name. It’s simple enough for me to move in. I’m immediate family.”
“I meant taking my name off,” I continued. “When I move out.”
He looked up, smiling and tilting his head, as if befuddled.
“I have to pack this weekend,” I said. “Trish, my new boss, she was talking about a start date in early June. I might go down to D.C. on Sunday to look for an apartment.”
“But you haven’t been offered the job yet, right?” Oliver said.
“Not technically,” I said. “She’ll probably make the offer today.”
Oliver shrugged. “Why get ahead of ourselves? If you get the job, then we can talk about the particulars.”
“I am getting the job, Oliver.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, returning to the newspaper.
At work, later that same morning, Ginny asked me to come to her office.
Compared with the newsroom, the executive floor was quiet and elegant. The carpeting was thicker, the furniture a richer shade of walnut. There were no eager young interns and assistants running around to oil the machinery. Here they had executive assistants, serious middle-aged women who sat sentry in the hallway, their desks pristine except for the occasional vase of flowers. The woman outside Ginny’s office said sternly, “Are you Violet Trapp?”
“Yes,” I said, standing up straighter. She wasn’t my boss, after all.
“Ms. Grass is ready for yo
u.” She gestured at the open door.
Ginny was reading something on her screen as she motioned for me to sit down. She let out a small, frustrated “hmmph.”
“Busy morning?” I ventured.
Ginny raised her eyebrows, suggesting that the nature of her morning was absolutely not my business. “I spoke to Trish yesterday,” she said. “You’re not going to Washington.”
I had guessed this might be the reason for the call. A counteroffer, an attempt to make me stay. I’d already rehearsed my response: “I’m very grateful for every opportunity Frontline has given me. But, with respect, this role would be a new challenge. And I think I can be an asset to the Washington bureau. With that in mind—”
Ginny shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m not trying to convince you to stay. You are staying. You didn’t get the job in Washington.”
“I—I’m sorry? I’m a little confused.”
The look on Ginny’s face confirmed what I’d always suspected: she hated me. Completely hated me. “I don’t see what there is to be confused about.”
“It’s just that Trish, and also Rebecca and Eliza, they were even talking about start dates—it just seemed like…”
Ginny wasn’t going to help with my floundering silence.
“I don’t understand what changed,” I said finally.
“I’m the president of KCN’s news division,” Ginny said. “That means Trish reports to me. So does Rebecca, and so does Eliza. If I think they’re making a foolish decision, I have the power to overrule them.”
There was a credenza behind Ginny’s desk with a number of framed photographs, most of them with politicians and dignitaries. She didn’t have a single family photo. That’s because she doesn’t have a family, I thought spitefully. She’s a miserable old woman. Cold and lonely and miserable. Even her own sister didn’t love her enough to stick around.
But there was one photo—Ginny as a younger woman, with two blond children in her lap. I recognized the children. How could I not? They were Oliver and Stella. Especially lately, the Bradleys were the closest thing to family that she had.
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