14JORDANA
It’s been just a few weeks since Olivia started working for me, and already she’s come a long way. Much further than I thought she would, I’ll admit.
She’s smart. There’s no doubt about that. And quick on her feet. She’s developed a digital filing system that streamlines all of our orders across every category and itemizes them by the wedding they correspond to. She’s tidied up the space by repositioning some of the furniture. She made the point that where we work is a mirror of what’s happening inside us, and that our brides will be delighted by the energy of the space. I don’t know where she gets this stuff, but I couldn’t agree more.
Beyond what she’s done to update the office, Olivia fetches my coffee each morning and knows exactly how I like it after being told only once—black with a touch of skim milk. Then at lunchtime, if I’m staying in, she’ll appear with a ginger salad and tuna sashimi from my favorite Japanese restaurant nine blocks away. This relationship is more successful than my marriage! I still can’t believe how easy it was to find her.
“Do you know where I can find the invoice for Alexa’s wedding gown?” I opened and closed a few documents on my laptop, but no luck. While Olivia’s new digital filing system has modernized my antiquated paper trail, it’s going to take a while for me to get used to it. I’m what some might call technologically challenged. It wasn’t until recently that I traded in my leather-bound planner for an online calendar. I don’t own an iPad. And I have absolutely no idea what this “cloud” everyone speaks of is. Fortunately, Olivia does.
“Let me help you.” She walked behind me and leaned over my shoulder. “Wow, your desktop is a mess.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have all these random folders, but nothing is organized.” She clicked around a bit, dragging things here and there. “You have to condense the ones that go with each wedding, now that everything is on here. Maybe title each of them with the bride’s last name for consistency. Do you want me to do it for you?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m sure I can figure it out,” I said confidently, even though I was certain I could not.
“Like what’s this one? Travel?”
“I think that’s a list of resorts people have recommended to me. I keep them for myself and for honeymoon suggestions.”
“Okay.”
“And this? Vendors?”
“That’s probably outdated.”
“Can I delete it?”
“No! What if I need it for something?”
“All right. How about this one? CD?” She hovered her mouse over a folder at the bottom of my screen.
“Some documents John wanted me to print for him a while back. It’s all financial nonsense.”
“Does he need it anymore?”
“Who knows? Better to leave it.” The phone rang then. “Can you please answer that?”
“Sure.”
“If it’s Ethel, tell here I’m not here and take a message.”
“Hello. Jordana Pierson Wedding Concierge.” A pause. “Let me see if Jordana is in. She may have stepped out for a minute.” Perfect.
“Ethel?” I mouthed.
“William,” she whispered, holding her hand over the receiver. I reached out my arm, and she passed it to me.
“Hello, William. So nice to hear from you. How are you?” I appreciate that William calls himself. He could easily have his assistant do it, as most men would. I don’t think John even knows how to use the phone system in his office. “Oh, I see. That’s no problem. Let me check. Hold on.”
I consulted my new online calendar. I’ll admit it is pretty easy once you get the hang of it. “Unfortunately, I’m not free after five o’clock next Wednesday. No, I’m so sorry. I have a gala to attend. Can we do it later in the week? I can make myself available either Thursday or Friday.” He went on. “Oh, you’re busy then, okay. I wish I could do Wednesday. But I really can’t get out of attending that event.” John already told me, in no uncertain terms, that I better be by his side that night. “Olivia? Well, this isn’t really her purview. I see . . . yes, but I’m not sure . . . it’s just that . . . it’s more . . . all right. If that’s what you’d prefer. Six thirty. Cartier. I’ll let her know. Thank you for understanding. You have a wonderful day too.”
“Everything okay?” Olivia sat back down at her own desk.
“It looks like you’re going to have to cancel your plans for next Wednesday.”
“I don’t have any plans.” She smoothed her blouse and straightened her posture. She’s always adjusting herself in my presence. Though I have to admit, I’ve noticed a marked improvement in her appearance.
“Well, that’s convenient.” It occurred to me then that she may not have a life outside of work, which is strange for someone her age. She’s never mentioned a significant other, and she’s pretty tight-lipped about anything personal. If she weren’t so one-dimensional, I’d be suspicious. “You’re going shopping with William for his wedding band.”
“Me?” Her cheeks turned pink. She better not have a crush on the groom.
“Yes, you. I know this is a first. And quite honestly, I’m not thrilled about it. I’d rather be there myself, but William had to reschedule, and of course next Wednesday is the only evening I can’t make it happen. Can you handle it?”
“Absolutely. How hard can it be to pick a ring? Men are usually very decisive.”
“True. Still, I’ll put in a call to Cartier ahead of time to guide their selections for you. I’m sure Ethel will want him to have the latest and greatest. I hope, for your sake, that she doesn’t come with him.”
“Me too.” Olivia shifted in her chair. Looks and growing self-assurance aside, we’re still going to have to improve her social awkwardness. “I can’t imagine having a mother-in-law like that.”
“Wait until you meet Arthur Doonan.”
“Worse?”
“Possibly. He’ll charm you at first. He’s very charismatic.”
“And then?”
“Just stay on his good side. If he has one.”
“He and Ethel must make quite a pair.”
“They do. Though if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s that marriages are complicated. And they’re not always as they seem. I mean, they’re not always bred from love or a desire for true companionship. We see a lot of . . . arrangements around here.” Olivia nodded, but I could tell she didn’t really understand. “I know that may seem harsh, but it’s true. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been married?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” I probed. Normally I wouldn’t waste my time, but there’s something interesting about Olivia. She’s so innocent. Life hasn’t pummeled her yet.
“No.”
“Well, there are plenty of men in Manhattan. You’ll meet someone.”
“It’s actually fine. I was seeing someone, but we broke up when I moved here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was my decision. I needed a change.”
“Then I’m not that sorry.” I smiled. Nobody understands the need for a fresh start better than I do.
“Do you think Tatiana and William are in love?”
“I’m not sure, and frankly, it’s not my business to care. What I do know is that—whether they love each other or not—the wedding must and will go on. At this point, anything short of that would be a catastrophic embarrassment.”
“Of course.” Olivia nodded.
“Remember this. It’s one of my cardinal rules. Never, ever become invested in the relationships of our brides and grooms. We’re not marriage counselors. Our job is to execute the wedding itself. Understood?”
“Yup.”
“Listen, if Tatiana and William figure out they don’t like each other
in a few months, they’ll get divorced, or they’ll pay for an annulment and go on their merry ways. It happens. But it’s not our problem.”
“That’s sad. Don’t you think?” Olivia stared at me. As if she was searching for sentiment on my face.
“Maybe.” Our eyes met then. I still can’t escape the feeling that there’s something so familiar about her. Like she’s an old friend. If I had any old friends. “I mean, yes. It is sad. But it’s just the way it is.” I paused to find the right explanation. “Happiness isn’t always a choice.”
15KERRIE
By six thirty the following Wednesday, I was standing beneath the succession of bold red awnings outside the Cartier building at 767 Fifth Avenue.
It’s April, and springtime has officially blossomed in New York City.
In Litchfield County, the season signaled songbirds humming, woodpeckers drumming, owls hooting, trees and flowers budding, and the earthy aroma of the ground and ozone thawing—a heady concoction of soil, grass, and pollen that no amount of chemical wizardry could emulate. But not in Manhattan. And definitely not in the heart of midtown.
As I waited for William, I thought about what Jordana said last week. That happiness isn’t a choice. I think she’s wrong. Because I’m finally on the path to being happy. After two decades spent marinating in my own misfortune, I’m choosing to take my life back. I refuse to allow the crappy circumstances that have defined me thus far to hinder me from moving forward.
I’m not going to feel sorry for myself anymore. I have a new purpose in seeking revenge on Jordana. I have a new job that I’m enjoying so far, and I’m living in the most amazing city in the world. I may have started out faking it, but this is going to be who I am now. And yes, I know that bad shit happens to everyone. I’m well aware that there are plenty of people who’ve suffered far worse than I have. It’s sort of like when you have the flu and all you want to do is complain about the fact that you have the flu, but then someone points out that you should be thankful that all you have is the flu. Because it’s impermanent. And you could be dying from a brain tumor instead.
I never believed that until now. I never saw past my own hardship. But here I am, taking a good long look at what surrounds me. And I like it. A lot.
I’m actually relieved that I saw Jordana on television that day. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have summoned the courage to leave. I wouldn’t have convinced myself that I could do better, and that I deserved to do better. What Jordana did all those years ago was horrific, but I can still make things right. I’m more motivated than ever. And let me tell you, it feels damn good to come out of my shell and define myself by my own ambition, for a change. Like this is who I was meant to be all along.
I sucked in a breath of air, coated with the fragrance of car exhaust fumes, moist gravel, hot dogs, and honey-roasted peanuts, as I delighted in the realization that Jordana is finally going to learn what it feels like to have someone ruin your life. And she’s going to have to atone for her sins.
How many afternoons did I sit perched on my windowsill with my nose practically pressed against the glass, watching the beautiful, mysterious older girl from down the block?
Sometimes she’d do cartwheels across her lawn or just dance around in her stonewashed jean shorts, spaghetti-strap tank tops, and black knockoff Adidas trainers when no one else was home. Of course, there was nothing special about those replica Adidas trainers, except that they were hers. And except that I’d never owned a pair myself. Real or otherwise, they were way too cool for me. But not for Jordan.
During the hottest summer days, I could reliably find her camped out on a flimsy beach chair outside her dilapidated house, with a bottle of baby oil, a sheet of aluminum foil, and her cracked Sony Discman, which she probably picked out of the trash. Sometimes I spent hours observing her from a distance. Sometimes I used my father’s old binoculars, so I could get a closer look and come one step closer to figuring out what she had that I didn’t.
It’s funny how the minutiae we recall from childhood isn’t trifling because it’s a window to a singular place in time. A series of moments that, when looped and threaded together, become the fabric of our youth. Memories that make us who we are today.
I knew I’d never be like Jordan. I was who I was. Plain. Boring. Mostly awkward. And while I probably should have cared—maybe even been jealous or resentful of her external confidence, despite what she endured behind closed doors—I was strangely content just knowing I could absorb her grandeur from a distance.
It’s almost impossible to believe that the Jordana I work for now was that girl. She’s a silhouette of her former self—an outline that’s no longer colored in. Although the truth is, I know very little about the woman she’s become. She rarely talks about her home life or her husband.
She has been very respectful of me as her employee, though. She asks for my opinion about everything from color schemes to cake flavors. She’s tasked me with being the liaison between her and all our vendors. And, most recently, she allowed me to transfer our bills from paper to online. If I didn’t hate her, I might genuinely like her.
I’m learning we’re similar in many ways. For starters, we’re both introverts, but we’re also both extroverted enough to satisfy our objectives. We could be friends. Though come to think of it, I’m probably too low on the social totem pole to qualify. That’s another thing: I’ve never heard her mention so much as an acquaintance. Doesn’t she have anyone to confide in? It goes without saying that she’s denying her past. New name. New look. New perfect life. I haven’t asked any questions, which has been a unique challenge for me, because I want to know everything about her.
Where does she tell people she’s from? Does she admit that her mother and father are still alive and residing in the same home on Cherry Creek Lane? Has she gone back since that night? Does her husband know that Jordan ever existed, or is her entire relationship based on deceit? I’m counting on the latter. After all, I am learning what it means to start over as someone else. It’s hard to keep everything in a straight line when you’re operating as two different people.
Jordan. Jordana. Kerrie. Olivia. The four of us are a crowd. But she’s beginning to trust me. I can tell. Which is really the whole point. The first stage of my plan—to get her to rely on me before I sabotage both her professional and personal lives—is evolving just as I’d hoped. Now I need to figure out what comes next.
Twenty minutes passed, as I transferred my weight from one high heel to the other, in an attempt to mitigate the torture I’ve slowly become accustomed to in the near five weeks that I’ve been here. I can’t leave. I can’t call Jordana—she made that very clear. She’s at her swanky event with John, not to be disturbed unless “the circumstances are dire.” I skipped lunch in favor of work and am, therefore, on the brink of irritability.
Until I notice William lacing his way down the busy sidewalk, waving frantically, with reddened cheeks and an inviting grin. Even though this is my job, it’s hard to deny William’s appeal. So far he’s defied every stereotype I expected of him. He seems laid-back, kind, and humble.
William stopped in front of me, his hands on his hips and his torso tilted forward. He sucked in a mouthful of air and then exhaled exaggeratedly. “I feel awful that I’m so late. I thought my five o’clock meeting would never end.” He panted as he returned to standing. “Then I couldn’t get a cab and, once I did, there was so much traffic I could have jogged here faster. Which I did for the last ten blocks.”
“It’s really okay. It’s not like I had anything better to do.” True story.
“Mind if I have a sip of that?” He motioned to the bottle of Evian I was holding.
“Yeah, sure. Of course.” I handed it to him. Normally it would gross me out to share my water with a virtual stranger, but oddly, I didn’t mind. And anyway, what else could I say? I’m afraid you might have cooties. “Are you ready to go insid
e?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be!” He smiled and reached for the door just as a uniformed security guard opened it for us. “After you.” William indicated for me to go ahead.
Once I entered the lobby, my hand flew to my mouth as I took in the elaborate architecture, the imposing vaulted ceilings, and the sleek glass cabinets showcasing what must have been millions of dollars in watches, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces, all dribbling diamonds. “Holy shit.”
“You’ve never been to Cartier before?” He smirked, evidently entertained by my inexperience.
“No, never.”
“Not even the one on Worth Avenue?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Remind me where that is again? I’m still learning the lay of the land here.”
“Worth Avenue. In Palm Beach. Didn’t you say you were from there?”
“Oh yeah. Of course I know that Worth Avenue. But I’d never been to the Cartier there, no.”
“Well, you’re here now. Shall we?” He directed me toward a saleswoman who was greeting customers with a spritz of Cartier’s signature scent.
“Hello, we’re here to meet with Samantha,” I said, unfolding the piece of paper I’d scribbled her name on. “It’s in regard to William Blum’s wedding band. I was told she’d be expecting us.”
“Yes of course. Follow me.” She led us toward the back of the store and into a private room with a desk and three chairs. “She’ll be right with you.”
“Thank you.” William nodded and we took a seat next to each other on one side of the desk.
“This is exciting, huh?” I widened my eyes.
“I suppose.” He didn’t look excited.
“It’ll be fun,” I encouraged.
“Can I admit something?” His brow creased.
“To me?”
“Yes, to you!” He shook his head, visibly amused.
“Oh, okay. Sure, go ahead.”
“I’m a little nervous.”
“Nervous about picking a ring?”
Pretty Revenge (ARC) Page 8
