Obviously, I already knew a few things about Jordan Butler—where she grew up, what she did that night, and how she robbed us, but nothing more. An initial internet search revealed a house tour on ELLE DECOR that featured Jordana’s amazing apartment on Park Avenue, which is over three times as big as the home I grew up in. It said they gutted the interior when they first purchased it. Their architect and designer both called the style “enriched minimalism,” whatever that means. You can tell from the photos that everything they own is classy, and the visual world they live in is unflawed, right down to the all-white, spotless living room. I’m guessing they don’t eat on their couch. I’m also guessing their couch is not from Pottery Barn or Crate&Barrel.
The pictures showed Jordana smiling demurely on her wraparound terrace, with John’s arm curled around her waist. The caption called him a hot-shot financier and said that he’s a managing director at A. Doonan, LLC, Arthur Doonan’s global investment firm, which Jordana had already told me. Still, it was proof in print that they’re super wealthy, as if that wasn’t apparent from the images alone. The writer waited until the final paragraph to mention Jordana’s eponymous bridal concierge service.
Of course they were not shy about repeating that Jordana and John are expected guests at all of the city’s “see and be seen” events, where I can only assume that socialites shovel caviar and slurp scotch to benefit the poverty-stricken. I’ve never tasted caviar, but it sounds repulsive. Fish eggs!? Really?
Caviar or not, the bottom line is that Jordana has been living out every small-town girl’s fantasy of opulence and success.
It’s hard not to be enamored by the glamour, even though jealousy tears me apart inside.
Unfortunately, there were no similar profiles of Tatiana and William as a couple. There were a number of clips announcing their engagement. A Royal Fairytale! Seeing Green for a White Wedding! (the S was a dollar sign). And I did happen upon a short, professional bio of William, who works for a prominent hedge fund. There was also a lot of information on Tatiana’s parents. Honestly, there were so many photos of all of them in gowns and tuxedos, fondling champagne glasses, that my vision started to blur.
“Where about in Florida?” I closed the drawer to the filing cabinet and walked back over to wear William was sitting. I didn’t want to come off as rude.
“Palm Beach.” I kept my voice low, since Jordana was only paces away behind the curtain with Tatiana. I wasn’t sure if she’d approve of me chatting with William.
“I love Palm Beach. My mom and dad used to have a place there.”
“That’s nice.” I was practically whispering, which was a little awkward.
“Yeah, I used to go down there all the time when I was a kid. We had to sell it when my mom passed away. My father was too distraught to go back. And it was too much for me and my brother to take care of.”
“I’m so sorry about your mother.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. It’s definitely not easy losing a parent.”
“I know.” I nodded.
“Your mom too?”
“My mom and dad.” I was too preoccupied with saying the right thing to remember to lie.
“Wow, that’s rough. Well, then I’m sorry for your losses.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“ARE YOU READY?” Tatiana projected from the dressing room, even though we were in close range.
“As I’ll ever be.” William hid an impish smile.
She threw back the curtain. “What do you think? I’m not sure I like it.” I spotted Jordana, off to the side, digging her fingernails into her forearm.
“What do you mean? It’s gorgeous. You look breathtaking.” William stood up and took two steps toward her.
Tatiana took two steps back. “You’d say that no matter what.”
“I would not.” But I suspected he would.
“Please, William.” She turned around to examine herself in the mirror. “Tell the truth. Do I look fat?”
“Sweetie, come on. You could never look fat.”
“Seriously, William.” Tatiana locked eyes with my reflection. “What do you think, Olivia?”
“Me?” I pressed my hand to my chest.
“Yes, you. You have an opinion, don’t you?”
“I think you’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” The words spilled from my mouth on instinct.
“Really?” Tatiana’s eyes widened, as Jordana smiled smugly.
“Yes. You’re absolutely stunning.”
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that?” She slanted her head to one side, as if the new perspective might enhance her view of herself.
“Definitely. I have no reason to lie.” At least not about this.
“Come to think of it, it’s not so bad after all.” Tatiana beamed and then twirled around, chasing her image at every angle.
“I’m glad we’re all in agreement.” William grinned.
“I am too,” Jordana announced, nodding at me before turning back to Tatiana, “Let’s get you out of it, then.”
As they closed the curtain behind them again, I overheard Tatiana say, “I like the new girl.”
And Jordana replied, “So do I.”
William and I shared a smile.
13JORDANA
Once Olivia had left for the day, I sat down at my desk with a stack of bills in my hands. It was already six o’clock, and I knew that John wouldn’t be home for hours. I picked up the phone to call Alexa Griffin, who’d left three messages throughout the course of the afternoon, despite the fact that Olivia had told her I couldn’t get back to her until the end of the day.
These people truly don’t understand that their troubles are First World. They’re unable to fathom that the urgency they’re experiencing is actually entitlement. Why? Because they’ve never been denied anything, including immediate and undivided attention. To them, a stray flower is a legitimate offense. The harrowing decision between serving lobster or filet mignon, Dom Pérignon or Cristal, is a genuine struggle. And it’s my job to pretend that I feel the same way. To pretend that I, too, am outraged by invitations that dare to arrive in an envelope, by mail.
“Jordana? Thank God,” Alexa answered immediately. “I’m freaking out. I feel like things are out of control. There are so many loose ends to tie up.”
“We’re taking care of everything. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that . . .”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” Use your words, little girl.
“Well, I started thinking that pink shouldn’t be my color scheme. I’ve been to three weddings in the last six months that were pink, pink, pink. Everything. I mean, they were beautiful, but can I really have another pink wedding? It seems so unoriginal. And of course Grey doesn’t care. He’s like, ‘Do whatever makes you happy.’ But that’s easier said than done. I don’t want people to think I’ve copied them.”
“I can’t imagine people will think that. No one owns the rights to the color pink. And anyway, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
“Sure, but I can’t be an imitator.” Instantly I regretted my choice of words.
“What did you have in mind, then?” I began mentally ticking off everything we’d have to change if Alexa decided to switch her color. It would be a nightmare. I can’t let that happen.
“Maybe purple? Isn’t it royal or something?”
“Kate and Meghan didn’t do purple. And if the duchesses didn’t do it, it can’t be that royal.”
“You’re right. Purple is out.”
“What about just white? All white.”
“As long as you’re okay with blending in.”
“Oh no, no. That won’t do.” Alexa was silent for a moment. And then, “I could go bold with red. Red is sophisticat
ed.”
“You could.”
“But?”
“Well, I happen to know that there’s a very big wedding before yours and that’s their color.”
“Tatiana Doonan?” I also happen to know that Alexa and Tatiana are frenemies. Two years ago, Alexa somehow managed to snag the Balenciaga gown Tatiana wanted to wear to the Guggenheim Museum’s Young Collectors Party. The feud was splashed all over the pages of the New York Post.
“You know I can’t say.”
“So it is Tatiana. Forget red. It’s trashy anyway.”
“Alexa, I don’t want to push you into anything, but pink is feminine. It’s soft. Tender. Aren’t you always telling me that Grey says you can come off as overwhelming sometimes?” Imagine that.
“Totally. He just said that this morning. He called me bridezilla.” If the shoe fits.
“Exactly.” Quickly I typed meaning of pink into my internet browser. “ ‘Pink is the universal color of love,’ ” I read directly off the screen. “Don’t you think that’s so romantic?”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Not to mention that peonies are most spectacular in pink. And remember, since they’re not in season in the fall, we’re going to import them, which will really impress your guests. No one has pink peonies in October.”
“True.”
“In my opinion, with your luminous complexion, pink is the only way to go. Grey will be absolutely mesmerized by your radiance. He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
“You’re right! You’re so right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s pink. It’s always been pink, and that’s the way it will stay.” Crisis averted.
“Excellent. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, yes. Let me see. I made a few notes.” I heard the crackling of paper through the receiver. “How are we doing with Adam Levin and Lady Gaga? My heart is set on one of them. Adam is so hot. But Lady Gaga is a strong woman like I am.” Sure.
“We’re working hard on making a booking. I’ve put in calls to their managers. It’ll come down to scheduling.”
“Money is no object. I’ll even swap the date if I have to.”
“I understand. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Changing the date is not an option. Not if Alexa expects to live long enough to walk down the aisle.
“What else?”
“Can we go over the menu one more time? And the vows. I can’t decide if we should write them or not. Obviously, I want to. But Grey thinks it’s hokey. Also, what if it rains? Can they do fireworks in the rain? I have to have fireworks. It’s kind of the thing now.” Of course it is. Brides and grooms worldwide—from Arkansas to Afghanistan—are shelling out tens of thousands of dollars to transform their wedding into the Macy’s Day Parade.
“Let’s address each concern one at a time.” I measured the tone of my voice so as not to sound the least bit perturbed by her flagrant privilege. By the time I got her off the phone a half hour later, I was roadkill.
Fireworks. The only fireworks I’d seen growing up were the ones in the living room when my father drank too much. I took a deep breath and considered what Alexa Griffin and Grey Wilder, Lucy Noble and Donald Cooper, and Tatiana Doonan and William Blum—or any one of the other couples I’ve worked with—would think if they knew where I really came from.
I let my mind ramble toward that time and place. A time and place that was just faint enough to feel untouchable. A life that no one would believe had been mine.
As I considered just how significantly things have changed for me, I slid my finger underneath the sealed flap of the electric bill and nicked it on the edge. A thin, clean slice. I watched the blood seep slowly to the surface, before soothing it with the tip of my tongue. I have a high tolerance for pain. But I didn’t always.
Believe it or not, I wasn’t conceived to be the warrior I’ve become. As a young girl, I was diffident, nervous even. For the first three months of kindergarten, I clung to my mom’s leg until the teachers had to peel me off like a stubborn scab. My teacher tried to soothe me with cherry ice pops and Nilla wafers, even though my mother’s presence was the only thing I wanted. Still, I went to school because I wanted to make her proud. I wanted to be just like her.
It wasn’t until my tenth birthday that my perception of her shifted. That was when I truly saw her for the first time. My mom was intent on throwing me a party at our house, with what money I’m not sure. While many people associate Connecticut with yacht clubs and grand estates perched on the shores of the Long Island Sound, Bridgeport, the city I grew up in—which is the largest in the state—is a far cry from the enchanted seaside towns of Fairfield County. The violent crime rate is among the highest in the nation. Rape, murder, armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon. All that good stuff. Let’s just say I wouldn’t let my child walk the streets alone. If I had a child.
But somehow my mother always seemed oblivious to our dire circumstances. Either that or she thought she was protecting me from them. She was so determined to give me the best tenth birthday a girl could ask for, maybe because no one ever did anything nice for her. I remember her saying, “You only turn double digits once.” She encouraged me to invite all my friends. “We’ll have pizza and yellow cake with vanilla icing and chocolate filling—your favorite,” she said. “We’ll play pin the tail on the donkey and impale a piñata with a baseball bat until it showers Raisinets and M&M’s.” What had escaped her is that I didn’t have any friends. Even at a young age, I didn’t really like people. Except my mom. And I didn’t want any special attention, cake or otherwise.
Still, she was committed. So she asked a few of her friends to bring their kids. And she spent way more than she should have. The party was executed perfectly. Even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I enjoyed myself, because I could tell how happy it made my mother. Everyone, even my father, was in good spirits.
Until all the guests were gone and we were safely behind closed doors. That’s when I saw my father’s face fierce with anger and his hands balled into meaty fists. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at my mother. “You said it was going to be a little party, not a blowout. How much did all this cost?” he slurred, as my mom slowly retreated.
He didn’t bother to dismiss me this time. I suppose, in his sick mind, double digits was also the age when watching him bang my mother’s head against a wall was no longer inappropriate. I remember wanting to scream and cry, but nothing came out. I remember wanting to jump on his back and pull him away from her. But instead I watched him pick up the remainder of my birthday cake, which my mother had lovingly baked from scratch, and pitch it across the kitchen at her.
Later that afternoon, when I found a far more docile version of him sitting in his chair in the living room, I approached cautiously and said, “I’m sorry, Daddy. It was my mistake. I asked Mom to do all of that.” I pinched the underside of my arm until the tears began to flow. “It’s not her fault,” I sobbed, hoping that he’d forgive her. But he didn’t say anything. He just kept drinking his whiskey and watching TV.
I’m guessing Arthur Doonan never shamed Ethel when she wanted to throw a birthday party for Tatiana. And I’m certain he’d never throw a cake at her or anyone else. I’m also pretty sure that Ethel wouldn’t take it if he did. That may be the one and only way I wish my mom had been more like her.
Still, despite her shortcomings, she used to say that happiness is a choice. She would sit on the side of my bed at night, enfolded in her white cotton robe dotted with ragged yellow daisies, and, after she’d tucked the covers beneath my chin, lean in close and tell me that you can’t depend on other people to fill you with joy. You need to discover it within yourself and learn to nurture it the way you would a stray animal or a newborn baby.
I believed her then. I’m not sure anymore.
The amazing thing is
that no matter how constricting the agony that stifled her, she loved my father unconditionally. She wasn’t crazy. She was a victim of abuse.
I may seem no different now than she was then. My condition may appear equally degrading, but I don’t think it is. Because, while I do turn the other cheek, my emotional equilibrium isn’t at the mercy of John’s impulse. I’m not as invested in him as my mother was in my dad. And John, good man though he’s not, is not a monster.
When my father’s temperament was hot, he scalded everything he touched. Including my mother. He lashed out verbally and physically. He even thrashed about in his sleep. Those were the mornings I’d find my mother on the floor of my bedroom, curled into a ball, hugging her bare legs to stay warm. I wish she’d realized that the best course of action—the only course of action—was to run. As fast and as far as she could.
That’s what I did. That’s how I ended up where I am today.
I do wonder what happened after I left eighteen years ago. I did love my mother. And I do miss her. Sometimes it’s all I can think about. Other times, months will pass without the recollection of her split lips, swollen eyes, and sunken cheeks haunting me.
I don’t know why she didn’t come looking for me. I left her an insurance policy—a fiscal safety net. He probably threatened her. He would have said anything to keep her under his thumb. I waited for my mother for years. I wanted her to save me and herself. Because she loved me. Because she wanted to find me. But she never showed up. And I moved on.
I erased the thought from my mind and sifted through the stack of bills in my hands. I marveled at just how many people I employ. Florists, photographers, musicians, dress designers. My connections are my success. They bridge the gap between one lifetime and another.
The past is safely behind me. I just need it to stay that way.
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 7
