“Of course. I’m all of those things and more.” My throat felt arid and raw. I swallowed a couple of times in an attempt to lubricate it with my own saliva. I should have asked for some water.
“Good.” Her mouth warped into a sly smile. “And I see you have plenty of experience as an assistant.”
“Yes. Five years.”
“What kind of company was it?”
“We made products for parents with little kids—there was a cup that held a drink and snack in one, a portable baby bottle warmer, and a changing pad that folded into a square about the size of my hand. Kind of like origami.” I didn’t mention that the company was based in Torrington, Connecticut, the largest city in Litchfield County, which isn’t really saying much, considering how close it is to New York City and Boston. Or that, prior to that, I’d spent years filling prescriptions at the local pharmacy and waiting tables at Friendly’s, which had mainly consisted of stripping human hair off tacky ketchup bottles.
“I see.” She paused. “Did you like it there?”
“I did. I like working.” What I wanted to tell her was that my mind thrives on the daily calisthenics of having a job. That everything from the menial tasks to the big picture of innovation inspire me, like I’m channeling the brainpower my father passed down to me into productivity. So much so that weekends nag at me. They seem vacant and clumsy in their attempt to compete with Monday mornings, which signal five days of feeling like I’m part of something and that people depend on me. I need that. It’s all I’ve got.
“Then why did you leave?” Good question.
“My boss, Nancy, sold the company. When she hired me, she said it was her baby and that she’d never let it go, but you know how it is.” Sometimes life boots you in the ass. Dead end after dead end. “Though I don’t fault her for her decision. I mean—”
She cut me off. “Do you do drugs?”
“No, not at all.” I shook my head.
“Are you a heavy drinker?”
“Definitely not.”
“Can you work late hours and some weekends?”
“Absolutely.”
“What kind of salary do you expect?”
“Whatever you can afford.” I knew it was an absurd answer, but I didn’t care.
“Pay is in cash to start. No benefits.” Interesting.
“That’s fine.”
Jordana stared at me for a moment, and I remained perfectly still, terrified that she might be trying to place me. But then she scribbled something on a sheet of paper in front of her and said, “Excellent. Let’s give this a try. When can you start?”
“That’s all?” Thank God she didn’t ask for a reference. That could have been tricky. I’d taken a small precautionary measure by listing only an email address for Nancy, a fake one that routed to me, not her. If Jordana had inquired about her telephone number, I was planning to say that she was traveling internationally for six months—a celebratory gift to herself after the contracts were signed. I figured that would at least buy me some time. But this was almost too easy.
“That’s all.”
“You don’t want to know anything more about me?” I’d gone to great lengths to contrive an invulnerable persona. I finally had a family. A heritage. Olivia grew up in Palm Beach with Golden Retrievers, a heated swimming pool, and a duck pond. Because, why not?
“I don’t have the luxury of squandering time. How about Monday?”
“Sure.”
“Wonderful.” She stood up abruptly. “You can see yourself out?”
“Yes.” I didn’t know whether to shake her hand or just leave, so I did the latter.
“Oh, and Olivia,” she called after me. “Appearance is everything in this industry. Red doesn’t flatter your complexion. I’d suggest a deep blue or even a dark green. You understand.”
“Okay.” I waited a beat for her to say something else. But she didn’t. She didn’t have to.
And she had absolutely no idea who I really was, which was exactly the way I wanted it and exactly the way I needed it to stay. For the time being.
As the door closed behind me, I tilted my chin toward the sun.
It’s my time to shine.
7JORDANA
I knew it! Olivia was everything I expected her to be. Eager and obedient. Even better, she accepted me at face value. Of course, she had no reason not to. But for some reason, it still surprises me that my facade is so believable.
The fact is, most people are too consumed with themselves to pay close enough attention to the world around them. Not me. I’m a carnivore for details. I want to know what’s molded someone from a malleable ball of clay into the hardened form of a human being. I want to know their untold truths. There are so many within the circles I rove, and I’m good at extracting them.
These skills aren’t easy to develop, though. They’re the outcome of years of religiously calculating my father’s moods. Years of monitoring the ebb and flow of his anger. So that now I know how to react and how not to, how to convince people that I’ll keep their secrets safe, because one false move, and suddenly you’re exposed. I can’t risk that.
It’s part of what makes me so good at my jobs: playing the devoted wife, and playing therapist to my most discerning clients. I once had a bride tell me, minutes before she walked down the aisle, that she was four months pregnant and no one knew, least of all her fiancé. Then there was a mother-of-the-groom who confided that her son was marrying for money and that he had a five-year exit plan. There was also a maid-of-honor who admitted that she had an ax to grind with the bride (her so-called best friend), so she planned to fuck the groom during cocktail hour. This is the world I live in. It’s also why I need someone to help me. I simply can’t be everything to everyone at all times.
I logged onto my computer and opened a Microsoft Word document, so I could start a list of responsibilities for Olivia, when the phone rang. Another reason why I need an assistant.
“Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.”
“Jordana? It’s Alexa Griffin.”
“Hello, Alexa. How are you?” I sat back in my chair. Alexa is one my neediest brides. The first time I met her, she asked if I was on call 24-7. Just in case she was anxious about something at, say, two in the morning.
“I could be better,” she sighed.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“I hope so. It’s my veil.”
“Okay. What about it?”
“I think it’s too long.”
“I thought you wanted cathedral length. You said it was the most dramatic.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But, what?”
“Have you ever heard of a birdcage-style?”
“Of course, but that’s the complete opposite of what you wanted. Birdcage veils only cover your eyes, sometimes jaw line. They’re more like a lace bandeau. You do know that, right?”
“I do. It’s just that my friend Lara said they’re super in now. And that got me thinking. I don’t want to look too conservative or, even worse, outdated.”
“Alexa, elegance is timeless. I think you’ll regret following a trend on your wedding day.”
“So you don’t like them?”
“No. I think they’re tacky, if you want my honest opinion.”
“Oh God, really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sure you’re right. In fact, now that you mention it, Lara is a little tacky sometimes. She has these sunglasses that have rhinestones all over them. I mean, rhinestones. Is it 1985?”
“I think you’re making the correct decision.”
“Thank you.”
“Any time.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
Once we’d hung up, I began to wonder why Alexa is as neurotic as she is. How does on
e become so fretful that they can’t make a single decision without questioning it a million times? What’s the difference between the way her mind looks on the inside and the way mine does? Does she have dirty little secrets too? As much I want to understand her, it takes discipline not to school her on what real-life problems actually are.
The thing is, if I want to succeed in this business, I have to empathize with her trivial concerns and the equally frivolous concerns of all my clients. I’m not complaining. My lifestyle isn’t exactly a hardship. I have my husband, John, to thank for that. Of course, I’d sooner let him screw me to a wall than offer gratitude. Appreciation doesn’t suit me. It smacks of obedience, which was my mother’s style, not mine. Maybe that’s why I taste bile most of the time.
I dialed John’s number and Mary answered. “Good morning, Mrs. Pierson.”
“Hi, Mary.”
“How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.” I didn’t ask how she was. I don’t have to. “Is he in?”
“Let me just take a peek.” She breathed heavily through the receiver. Mary is one hot dog away from a heart attack. “He certainly is. Let me transfer you.”
I waited a few seconds before John came on the line. “What’s up?” His tone was terse. John expects that if I call him during the day, there better be a damn good reason.
“She was fantastic!” I announced.
“Who’s ‘she’?”
“Olivia. My new assistant.”
He exhaled. “Is that it?”
“This is a big deal for me. For my company,” I explained, even though I knew he cared more about where he was going for lunch.
“It had better be, because I’m not going to stand by while you waste your time for much longer. You’re not earning a dime. And regardless, we certainly don’t need the money.” John makes no secret of the fact the he resents my career. He also hates when I use the word career to describe what he believes to be more of a hobby. Like Soul Cycle. He wants a wife who stays at home, devotes her time to taking care of him, and dabbles in occasional charity work. But that’s not me. And by the way, I am earning a dime. Much more than that. He just doesn’t know it.
“Well, I have high hopes,” I replied, undeterred by his cynicism.
Sure, John and I pretend to like each other. Our arms girdle each other’s waists in front of the camera at public events. We smile—wide and white—as the lightbulbs glint, capturing the veneer we’ve perfected. But it’s all bullshit.
No one’s willing to admit that behind closed doors their husband’s a philanderer. That they wince at the shrill squeals of their own children. And that they bleed every penny they earn, so that one day when their children grow up, their inheritance will be a legacy of debt. Within my gilded group, subsisting beyond one’s means trumps fiscal responsibility any day.
“If that’s all, then,” he grumbled.
“That’s all.” We hung up without saying good-bye. John doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t even know me. Not the real me.
I’ll tell you, it involves preparation and perseverance to bury your past. To study and replicate customs that aren’t inborn. For example, when I was growing up, Santa Claus didn’t visit our house at Christmas time. There was no lustrous spruce tree. No plump pink ham. I was told that naughty girls didn’t deserve presents, mainly because my parents couldn’t afford them.
Now the holiday season signals jaunts to Aspen by private charter, where lapdogs model mink coats and slurp Perrier from sterling silver saucers.
It may not be who I once was. But it’s who I am now, even if it feels suffocating most of the time. Still, I need to hold my head high.
Because one day, it will all be worth it.
8KERRIE
Once the buzz of triumph had subsided, a sudden surge of discouragement took its place. Jordana hadn’t recognized me at all. It may sound hypocritical, but even though I wanted—no, needed—her to believe that I’m Olivia, there’s a part of me that’s disappointed. Just the sound of her voice, seeing her again, tugged the memories of that night from the depths of our pooled history, which is why I nearly blew my cover. I was so overwhelmed that I almost seized her by the shoulders and demanded, Do you know what you did to me!? Do you see me!?
But I didn’t. I managed to contain my composure. And as a result, I have a foot officially in the door, which means I’m going to overlook the fact that I obviously meant much less to her than she did to me.
I have little recollection of my walk home from the interview. I was wholly oblivious to the swift pulse of my surroundings. As the cars and trucks swiveled past me and the pedestrians swept by with their oversize purses and briefcases, I ambled forward, preoccupied by Jordana’s every word, her every movement. I analyzed everything she’d said. Every expression she’d made. And I didn’t stop, even once I was safely sequestered in my apartment, alone with my thoughts. I was so distracted, in fact, that it took me a minute to realize that the banging in my head was actually someone knocking on my door.
“Who is it?” I asked, peering through the peephole.
“It’s me, Sara. Your neighbor.” She smiled even though she couldn’t see me.
I met Sara just the other day, in the mailroom of our building. She was attempting to pacify her son, who was screaming at the top of his lungs, so I didn’t expect her to talk to me, but when she did, I introduced myself as Olivia. She seems sweet, if not desperate for the company of an adult. You always hear about New Yorkers being assholes, but Sara doesn’t come off that way at all. Maybe because she stays at home and doesn’t participate in many grown-up conversations. Unfortunately, her son makes Satan look like Mary’s little lamb, which I found out the hard way when she asked if I could hold him for a minute, and he clawed the back of my neck with his jagged fingernails.
Regardless, in an effort to act more like Olivia would, I invited her to stop by for a drink.
“Oh, sorry. Hold on a second.” I unlocked the double bolts, released the metal chain, and let her in. Apparently, you can never be too safe in a building without a doorman. “Hey. How are you?” She appeared less tousled than she had the other day. Probably because her mini demon wasn’t in tow. “Welcome to apartment 12C.”
“Thanks.” She followed me inside.
“Drink?” I offered.
“Glass of wine?” She arched an eyebrow.
“That I can do.” I nodded. “If you ask to borrow milk or eggs, though, you’re out of luck. I’m on the takeout food plan until I get myself to a supermarket.”
“I haven’t seen the inside of a supermarket in a year. Do you know what it’s like to wheel a child through the produce aisle?” In that moment, I realized just how different our lives were, and then did a quick scan of the apartment to make sure there wasn’t any dirty underwear on the floor or photographs of Jordana on my computer screen. “You can order all your groceries online. I can show you how to do it if you want. They’ll even bring them upstairs if you tip well.”
“Wow, that’s awesome.” I’m already getting used to this city lifestyle. Everything on demand. “I may take you up on that.” I handed her a generous plastic cup of Pinot Grigio and motioned for her to sit in one of the two chairs I’d purchased at a furniture store around the corner. They were floor samples, covered in a neutral gray linen fabric, and the store was going out of business, so the price was right. Plus, the guy said he’d deliver them for an extra forty bucks.
I may have to buy one of those I NY T-shirts.
“These are comfortable.” Her whole body slumped into the sunken cushion.
“Can I offer you some pretzels? That’s all I’ve got.”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” She blew her thick bangs off her forehead and sighed. Sara is much more attractive when she’s not scowling. Her black hair, green eyes, and ivory complexion exude a modern Snow White vibe.
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to talk to someone without being interrupted by crying or projectile vomit.”
“I’m sure.” I tried to sound empathetic, but I don’t understand the first thing about caring for a child full-time. “Where is . . .”
“Dante.”
“Right.” Did she tell me that before?
“My mother took him to his music class. Thank God. It’s the most insufferable hour of my week. All they do is smash tambourines, shake little plastic eggs, and sing ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ ten thousand times in a row, row, row.”
I glanced at a photograph of my own mother on the side table I’d picked up at the same store as the chairs. She never had the chance to take me to music class.
Don’t worry, though, growing up without parents isn’t as tragic as it sounds. Despite the fact that I’ve been told my father was a self-effacing genius and my mother had a magnetic personality rivaled by Hollywood starlets. Apparently, she was someone people wanted to get to know. My nana always said, as striking as she was to look at, she was equally effervescent in a way you can’t contrive. “All she had to do was smile and the whole universe would light up.” Maybe if my mother had had the chance to raise me, I would have absorbed some of that effervescence. Maybe then I’d sparkle too.
Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to find out. My parents died just shy of my second birthday. I wish I could say that theirs was a cinematic demise. But it was nothing more than a clichéd car wreck. And an unwarranted one, at that. While my mother was engaging and vivacious, she was also a dreamer, someone who tuned out the vital details. So much so that she failed to mention to my father the need for brake fluid in her car, which turned out to be a fatal faux pas when a drunk driver entered stage left during a Saturday afternoon date while I was with the sitter.
Do I blame her for the crash? Yup. That’s the simple truth. But time has dampened my resentment. At some point, I managed to iron my smothering hostility into a gauzy self-pity.
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 4
