As I thought more about it, I stared out the window of my twelfth-floor apartment at the shard of life beneath me. Then I filled a large red Solo cup with tap water from the kitchen sink and surveyed the vacant space surrounding me. It was curiously simple to rent a suitable place on the fly in New York City. Just a few clicks and a phone call, and I’d committed to a one-bedroom located between Lexington and Third Avenue on Eighty-Fifth Street, which—from what little research I had time to conduct—appears to be a prime location.
I do have a very small nest egg thanks to the payoff from my nana’s life insurance. Unfortunately, the money was never invested, but it was deposited into an account for me until I was ready to be fiscally independent, which I’m thankful for now so I can put it to good use. I am well aware that it won’t sustain me forever, though, especially in New York, so time is of the essence. It’s do-or-die. Either I succeed—and Jordana will repay what she took from us, which will keep me financially afloat until I figure out what to do next—or I fail and skulk back to Connecticut with an empty bank account and my tail between my legs. I cannot let that happen.
That’s why I’m here. And that’s why I’m changing my identity. The fact is, sometimes deceit is an algorithm for truth. Or, plainly stated, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, no matter the height of the stakes.
Fortunately, Olivia Lewis was my mother’s name, and it also happens to be the name recorded on my birth certificate. Olivia Kerrie Lewis. When I was born, my parents decided to call me Kerrie so I’d have my own identity. And O’Malley was my nana’s last name, which I assumed after my parents’ deaths. to avoid confusion at school. But Nana never went to the trouble of having my last name legally changed.
I think Olivia Lewis sounds majestic. It slips off the tongue like warm butter. I just need to figure out who Olivia Lewis is, because this life is so foreign to me. As I imagine her, she’s delicate and refined. She walks with her head held high and her shoulders rolled back. She handwrites thank-you notes on dense ivory stock edged in gold leaf (I have no idea what gold leaf is. Does it grow on a tree?). And sips kir royales (or something posh like that) on the French Riviera, shaded by one of those wide-brim straw hats with grosgrain ribbon to buffer her delicate complexion. Olivia Lewis is someone who people notice; someone they want to indulge. She’s like so many of the heroines I’ve read about in romance novels, or the characters—some fictional, some not—I’ve watched in Hallmark movies and reality shows. A species that’s been both fascinating and remote to me. Both aspirational and inspirational. Thank God I spent years with my nose in books and my eyes glued to a television screen. My particular vault of knowledge is finally being put to good use!
The thing is, once I saw Jordana on TV, I knew I had no choice but to take action. I owe it to my nana. And I owe it to myself. I need to figure out who I really am, freed from the constraints Jordan placed on me.
And if Jordan Butler can transform herself into Jordana Pierson, then Kerrie O’Malley can certainly become Olivia Lewis.
Only one thing left to do before my new identity is complete: I have to figure out what I’m up against. Jordan was tough. But Jordana might be tougher. I’m neither. But I think I’m smarter. And that’s something.
Of course, once Jordana hires me—she will, I’m as sure of it as I’ve ever been about anything in my life—I’ll need to gain her trust. Then, and only then, can I start to sabotage her life the way she did mine. I can finally expose who she really is, where she really comes from, and what she’s really capable of, to everyone she loves, everyone whose respect she craves, including her husband.
Jordana took everything from me, and now I’m going to take everything from her.
5JORDANA
I stepped outside onto my terrace and let the bitter wind slap me in the face. The callous air was refreshing, even though the rest of my body was shivering. Sometimes it’s still hard to believe that I’ve come this far. That the luxury of hovering over Park Avenue, stories above the motions of everyday existence, is mine, all mine.
So what if I had to perjure myself to get here? Everyone has a dirty little secret. At least one.
My husband, John, came home late last night with pink cheeks and a limp dick. Ask me what else is new. I’d purchased a brand-new black-lace number from Agent Provocateur that afternoon, and I’d waited up so I could seduce him, only to find out that he’d already been drained of desire by someone other than me. The practical side of my brain knows that it’s our unspoken covenant, but that doesn’t always soothe the sting when I realize he’s been with another woman. As a broad concept, I’m able to convince myself it’s okay. It’s when the evidence is right there in front of me that I question my convictions.
This morning I tried my hand at it again. Quite literally. I slithered my fingers up the inside of his thigh and my tongue along the margin of his ear. But he turned his back on me. The nerve.
“Can’t you see that I’m busy?” He toyed with his iPhone.
“It’ll only take a few minutes.” I traced the tip of his dick, which was still apathetic. “Let me.” Repulsive, but I have needs too. Really, what do these other women offer that I don’t? I’ve given enough head to know that my skills are sharp. And I’m not exactly a reluctant fuck.
“Jordana. I’m in the middle of something.” He inched farther away before throwing the covers to the side and rising to his feet. His dimpled ass mocked me. “I have critical work issues that need to be dealt with now.” He swaggered toward the bathroom.
Once I heard the shower running, I engaged in a little hedonism of my own. Like I said, I have needs. And they’re aching to be indulged.
After that, I joined him in the bathroom and faced myself in the mirror. The self-gratification had left me feeling blanker than before. “I’m interviewing someone for the assistant position on Friday,” I projected over the pulsing water. He didn’t reply. “Did you hear me?”
“What’s that?” he asked impassively, stepping onto the bath mat and toweling himself off. John used to be a prime specimen of a man. He worked hard at it too—carving and chiseling every muscle. Now, looking at him standing naked in front of me, I can no longer see the outline of his abs or the bulge of his biceps. He’s gone soft and bloated. It doesn’t matter. A fat, gray-haired rich man is still a rich man.
“I said I have an interview for an assistant on Friday.”
“That’s nice.” He dropped his towel on the floor and moved into the bedroom. I followed. I refuse to be placated, even if he pays the bills. I fulfill my duties. That should entitle me to a little courtesy.
“It is nice. I could really use some extra help with things growing as they are. I can’t do everything myself.”
“I thought you said that the company wasn’t making any money.” He finished getting dressed, knotting his Gucci tie around his neck like a noose. Or is that my wishful thinking?
“It’s not, yet, but that’s because I need a second pair of hands,” I lied. “Anyway, there was something about this girl’s email. You know when you just have a feeling that someone’s going to be right? That things are about to change for the better.”
“Sure,” he replied absently.
“Obviously, the Doonan project is a beast of a job. Not to mention my other weddings, which are challenges in and of themselves. I’m optimistic that this girl will be able to shoulder some of the overflow while I focus on the vital organs.”
“Well, we definitely don’t want to disappoint Arthur. Or Ethel.” John has been rubbing elbows with the Doonans for two decades. Arthur used to play golf with John’s late father, Mortimer Pierson, and John’s mother, Betty, and Ethel still lunch at Fred’s when there’s an agenda to break bread over. Even though they don’t actually eat bread.
Not to mention that John works for Arthur now, which he likes to remind me is the reason why I was hired in the first place. Watch him ta
ke credit for the whole thing.
Most everyone in New York City—from the pedestrians to the jet-setters—knows who Arthur and Ethel Doonan are. In fact, most of them want to be Arthur and Ethel, however misguided an objective that is. Even if John doesn’t give a shit about my business, he’ll hold my feet to the coals if I screw up this wedding. If so much as one hair on Tatiana’s head is out of place, I’ll be disgraced and discredited just like that. There is no social purgatory.
“Listen, I need my dry cleaning picked up today. And I need you to get Mary a birthday present.” Mary, John’s secretary, is sixty-three years old, as overweight as her age, and her skin is pleated like a Shar Pei’s. She’s absolutely perfect in every way.
“I do have a busy day, but of course I’ll make time. Anything for Mary.” This, too, is exactly why I need an assistant.
“Excellent.” He pecked me on the forehead. “I’ll see you.”
“Will you be home for dinner?”
“Unlikely.” I tracked his footsteps down the hallway and into the foyer, where I’d left his briefcase. Ever the obedient wife.
“We can eat late. I don’t mind. I’ll have Chef make your favorite steak and potatoes.”
“Don’t count on it.” He draped his coat over the crook of his arm. “In fact, don’t wait up for me at all. I’m sure I have an evening meeting or two.”
“You’ll let me know?” My jaw stiffened as I adjusted his suit jacket and brushed an invisible speck of lint from the lapel.
“This is me letting you know, Jordana.” One definitive nod and the conversation was sealed shut. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” I closed the door behind him and then spit out under my breath, “You fucking prick.”
6KERRIE
Five hours before my eight o’clock alarm, I woke up drenched in my own perspiration, but still quivering beneath my down comforter. I felt dizzy. Queasy. Confused. Fearful of my own self-doubt and betrayed by my feeble resolve.
Maybe I’d made a mistake moving to New York City. Maybe I put too much faith in karma. What if my big idea to seek revenge isn’t enough? What if Jordana knows it’s me in an instant. What if there’s someone else more qualified for the job and I don’t even get hired? There’s a distinct possibility that I depleted my savings and overturned my life for nothing more than failure in the form of a makeover.
These are the thoughts that thrashed around in my head as I dipped in and out of the caressing arms of sleep—unable to linger there—until my filmy curtains could no longer restrain the light of day.
I missed Matthew. Enough to stretch my arms and legs across his side of the bed. I couldn’t help but replay the day I left him. He’d slung his head and hunched his shoulders, while I bundled my things into two large metal suitcases that had belonged to my nana. Then he hugged me good-bye and said he hoped we’d stay in touch, even though we both knew that we wouldn’t. Three years together and it was that easy to walk away.
I forced myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where the mirror spoke unkindly to me. My hair was no longer smooth and straight, but damp and coarse at the ends. My makeup, which had been so artfully applied, was now blotchy and smeared around my eyes, which were bloodshot and bloated. I shouldn’t have eaten all that Chinese takeout last night. MSG is the thief of beauty, according to Into The Gloss. Why didn’t I listen?
What if I can’t do this? I believed I could be this other person and fix my life with one decision, but now that seems crazy. Am I crazy? That pretty girl at the salon isn’t who I really am. But if I fail, I’ll have to go back to Litchfield, humiliated, and beg Matthew to take me back into his home and his heart, because if I can’t pull this off, then maybe that is the life that was meant for me. Maybe that is the best I deserve.
I splashed cold water on my face. Then I brushed my teeth and stepped into the running shower, allowing the scalding downpour to work its magic. I considered canceling the interview. People get pneumonia. Their pets pass away. Their parents get killed in a car crash. It happens. All of it. I know. Except canceling would raise a red flag, and Jordana might not be willing to reschedule if I change my mind. Refocus, Kerr—Olivia. Jordana cost me my nana’s life savings and my most prized possession. More than that, though, she stripped me of my faith, my future, and—if I’m being perfectly honest—I hold her responsible for Nana’s death. She filched my capacity to trust. I would have done anything for her. She knew that. I may have let her take it all if she’d just asked. I may have offered it to her if she’d stopped to think about anyone other than herself before being so careless. She didn’t, though, because her selfishness and her greed dwarfed her respect for me. And I need to reclaim that respect. If I want a life worth living.
I stayed in the shower until I was as withered on the outside as I was on the inside. But somehow I summoned my resolve. I dressed myself in one of my new outfits—a black pencil skirt, a red silk blouse that buttoned up the back, a gold wrist cuff, and a pair of the highest patent leather pumps I’ve ever worn, in a color the saleswoman called “cashmere,” which isn’t really a color at all. I did my best to wrestle my hair into docility the way Blake had. And attempted to contour my face with the extensive collection of makeup I was told was the bare minimum to achieving the “no makeup look.” The result was not nearly as polished as what the professionals had executed, but it would have to be good enough.
Fortunately, when I was sixteen years old, I broke my already crooked nose by riding my bike down a side alley behind McDonald’s and hitting a pothole in the road. (I was starving. And it was a shortcut.) Mercifully, health insurance covered the plastic surgery required to fix it, and now my nose is straight and bump-free. Second, while I was working for my old boss, she decided to try adult braces on the inside of her teeth. She offered to pay for mine as well, since I’d recently played a critical role in landing a huge account. The orthodontist even threw in a free whitening. It’s pretty amazing how those things alone can alter your whole appearance. And now, with the addition of my new makeover, I truly look nothing like the twelve-year-old girl Jordana met nearly two decades ago.
Even though I still had an hour to kill, I gave myself another once-over and decided I was ready. I thought about eating something, and then reconsidered. It seemed too dangerous a prospect, given my nervous nausea. I also considered throwing back a shot of vodka to calm my nerves, though that seemed riskier. I needed to quiet my anxiety and keep a clear, keen mind in order to face Jordana.
Jordan I felt like I knew, even though I only spent one night with her. At the very least, I understood the roles we were cast in. I was the bored, lonely, plain girl down the street who looked up to her. And she was the captivating older girl, living in the decrepit house with the scary father, who had no idea who I was. Jordana, on the other hand, is a stranger to me.
I decided to walk. To inhale the crisp, cool air—polluted or not. Never mind my toe-crunching heels. Never mind that the waistband of my skirt had already dented my abdomen. No pain. No gain. Isn’t that what they say? I believe that. And if I’m correct, so must Jordana. We’re more alike than she might think. I’ll prove that to her.
As I traversed the city streets, glancing periodically at a map I’d found on my cell phone, I tuned my focus to anything but her. The homeless people languishing beneath logo’d awnings. The swollen pigeons tapping at cubes of stale bread. The taxis buzzing through traffic like bumblebees on speed. And the people. All the people. Oblivious to one another in their pursuit of constant movement. Just the other day, I read that Manhattan is the most linguistically diverse city in the world. There are eight hundred languages spoken here, which means four in every ten households communicate in a dialect other than English. I found that intriguing, because I consider myself to be pretty smart, and I can’t even name two hundred different languages.
Jordana’s office is located on Sixty-Ninth Street be
tween Madison and Fifth Avenue, which isn’t too far from my apartment, so before long, I’d arrived at the unassuming, three-story building with two seven-foot windows flanking a double door of the same height. The only other descriptive features were two modern sconces and two large potted trees surrounding the entrance. I inhaled fortitude and exhaled uncertainty. Then I rang the buzzer and waited. A full minute passed. Sixty whole seconds that extended to an eternity, as my heart pounded like a migraine. So much for fortitude.
Could she have forgotten about our meeting? A burning sensation rose in my chest. I pressed the button again, this time more tenaciously. And I waited. Maybe this was my out. God’s way of telling me I made the wrong decision; I didn’t deserve better. I rang the bell once again and then retreated, sick with defeat.
“Olivia?” Not a second later, her voice smacked me in the back. I nearly didn’t respond. I’m not used to being called that yet.
“Yes?” I turned around. And there she was. Jordan. Jordana. I wouldn’t have been able to pick her out in a police lineup if I hadn’t heard her voice on TV. She was as breathtaking as ever, though, even without her red hair. My knees trembled as I watched her watch me.
“My apologies. I was just finishing up a call with one of our lovely brides.” She waved me toward her. “Please join me.” I followed her inside, where she directed me to a desk in the far corner of the loft-like studio, which bore a striking resemblance to Equinox’s salon. I’m beginning to realize that empty white space is the mark of affluence. Although you’d think with all that money there’d be more stuff. Like some kind of pricey knickknacks. Nana was a big fan of knickknacks. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No thank you. I’m fine.” She sat down, and I did the same. She hadn’t looked at me yet. Not really looked. Even though I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
“I’m going to get to the point, since my schedule is tight.” Her gaze met mine. At long last, the moment of truth. “I need someone who’s intelligent, capable, organized, and can think on her feet. No bullshit. We’re here to design dreams, and anything short of that is an epic failure.”
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 3
